Three days after the gala, after Ivy's public humiliation, she's back at our dinner table like nothing happened. Like I didn't just expose her as a dried-up has-been in front of New York's entire underworld.
The audacity of this woman. Or maybe it's just desperation dressed up as confidence.
"The Rotterdam shipment needs rerouting," she's saying, her hand on Cassian's forearm as she points to shipping manifests. "The port authority's been compromised."
I cut my steak with perhaps more violence than necessary, watching how she lets her fingers linger. Cassian doesn't pull away. Of course he doesn't—Ivy's father controls the European ports. One word from her, and our entire Baltic route collapses.
We need her like we need oxygen, and she fucking knows it.
"Remember Milan?" She laughs, all manufactured nostalgia. "That customs official who tried to double-cross us? You handled that so beautifully."
Cassian actually smiles at the memory. "You distracted him while I wired his car."
"Good times." Her fingers trace patterns on his sleeve. "When it was just us against the world."
The knife slips in my hand, screeching against the plate. They both look at me.
"Sorry," I say sweetly. "Just thinking about the good times. Like that story about you crying in the bathroom after he couldn't get it up for you. Third time, wasn't it, Ivy?"
Her face flushes but she recovers fast. "Men have off nights. Though I suppose you wouldn't know that yet. Still in the honeymoon phase where everything's perfect."
Bitch, he fucked me twice this morning and once in the shower. Everything's working just fine.
After she leaves—finally—I corner Cassian in his study.
"She wants you back."
He doesn't look up from his laptop. "She's my business partner. Her father controls half our European distribution."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer that matters." He finally meets my eyes, and there's irritation there I haven't seen before. "We have history, yes. Professional history that keeps this empire running."
"Professional? She was practically jerking you off through your sleeve."
"You're being paranoid."
The word hits like ice water. "Paranoid? Your ex-girlfriend is marking territory at our dinner table and I'm paranoid?"
"She's not my ex-girlfriend. She's my business partner whose connections we can't afford to lose." He stands, moves toward the door. "I have work to do."
That night, our lovemaking feels mechanical. He's present but not really there, going through motions—his hands where they should be, his mouth saying the right things, but his mind somewhere else.
When he comes, it's with his eyes closed, and I wonder whose face he's seeing.
Three days later, everything goes to shit.
The Miami shipment—thirty million in product—gets hit. Someone knew the exact route, the security rotation, even the fucking license plates. Information only five people had access to.
Cassian calls an emergency meeting in his study. Rafael, Ivy, two lieutenants—Marco and Tommy—and me. The air is thick with suspicion and barely contained violence.
"Someone in this room is a traitor." His voice is arctic. "That information was compartmentalized. Only we knew."
"Maybe someone's phone was compromised," Marco suggests.
"Or someone's been talking in their sleep," Ivy says, eyes sliding to me. "Pillow talk can be dangerous."
"Fuck you," I snap.
"Already did that," she says smoothly. "Ask your husband how dangerous it can be."
Rafael clears his throat before Cassian can respond. "Let's focus. Who benefits from hitting our shipment?"
"The Colombians," Tommy says. "They've been pushing for that territory."
"Or the Castellanos," Ivy suggests, oh so casually. "They'd love to see Cassian weakened after that stunt with Vincent at the gala."
Everyone looks at me. My father publicly humiliated, his daughter now positioned to feed him information. The logic is obvious and poisonous.
"That's ridiculous—"
"Is it?" Ivy leans forward. "You've been asking about our operations. Rafael mentioned you wanted details about Miami specifically."
"Because I'm trying to understand the business!"
"Or gathering intelligence." She turns to Cassian. "Check the security footage. She was alone in your office Tuesday when the shipment details were on your desk."
Cassian's jaw tightens. "This meeting's over. Everyone out. Except Rafael."
I stand to leave but his voice stops me. "You too, Esther."
The dismissal burns. I'm his wife, not his employee, but I leave anyway. From the hallway, I hear Rafael's urgent voice, catch fragments: "Castellano... benefits most... be careful... can't ignore..."
When Cassian emerges twenty minutes later, he looks at me like I'm a stranger. Calculating. Cold. The man who said he loved me three days ago is gone.
"We need to be careful," he says.
"Careful of what? Of me?"
He doesn't answer, which is answer enough.
That week is hell. Two more leaks—a warehouse location in Queens, the name of a judge we own. Each time, information is limited to the inner circle. Each time, Ivy is there to point out my access, my opportunity.
"Esther was asking about the warehouse last week," she mentions casually over dinner.
"Esther knew about Judge Morrison," she notes during a meeting.
Small seeds of doubt, planted with surgical precision. And Cassian, my brilliant, paranoid husband, lets them grow.
He starts working late, coming to bed after I'm asleep. Leaves before I wake. When we do interact, it's surface level—polite strangers sharing space. The man who couldn't keep his hands off me now barely touches me.
"Talk to me," I beg one night, catching him in our bedroom.
"About what?"
"About why you're pulling away. About why you're letting her poison you against me."
"No one's poisoning anything." But he won't meet my eyes. "Things are complicated right now. The business needs my full attention."
"And I'm not part of the business? Three weeks ago, you said I was your partner."
"Maybe that was premature." The words are careful, measured. "Maybe you weren't ready for this level of involvement."
"Or maybe you're a coward who'd rather believe his ex than trust his wife."
His jaw tightens. "Trust? Information known only to us is ending up in enemy hands. You have access to everything. Your father benefits most from our losses. These are facts, not paranoia."
"The fact is Ivy wants me gone and you're letting her win."
"This isn't about Ivy—"
"Everything is about Ivy!" My control shatters. "She controls your European routes through daddy, she's been in your bed, and now she's in your head. And you're so fucking scared of losing the business that you'd rather lose me."
"I'm not losing you."
"Aren't you?" I move toward him but he steps back, and that small motion breaks something in me. "When's the last time you touched me? When's the last time you looked at me without suspicion?"
"I need to think clearly," he says. "Without... influence."
The word hangs between us like a blade. Influence. Like I'm some corruption in his system that needs to be purged.
"You want to know what I think?" My voice is deadly quiet. "I think you were looking for an excuse. I think you're so convinced you'll destroy what you love that you're destroying it first, just to prove yourself right."
"That's not…"
"Isn't it? Your father, your grandfather, all the Greyhaven men who came before—they all destroyed what they loved. And here you are, right on schedule, choosing suspicion over trust, choosing Ivy over me."
"I'm not choosing anyone. I'm trying to protect the empire I’ve built!"
"Fuck your empire." The words explode out. "What's the point of having it if you're alone on the throne?"
He looks at me then, really looks, and for a moment I see my Cassian—the man from the garden, from the piano, from all those desperate nights. Then his walls slam back up.
"I need space to figure this out," he says.
"Space." I laugh, bitter. "Is that what we're calling it when you crawl back to Ivy?"
"That's not what this is."
"No? Then what is it?"
He doesn't answer. Just turns and walks into the bathroom, closing the door between us. The lock clicks—a sound I've never heard before. He's never locked me out.
I stand there, staring at that closed door, and realize this is how it happens. Not with violence or cruelty, but with distance and doubt. Death by a thousand small betrayals.
Ivy's winning. And Cassian's letting her.