The sea outside Dubrovnik was silent. A turquoise hush that stretched for miles.
Cassian Blackthorne stood on the balcony of his marble villa, fingers wrapped around a glass of aged bourbon, his eyes fixed on the water.
Not because it calmed him.
But because it reminded him of Nova’s eyes.
Storm and depth. Memory and consequence.
He hated that.
He hated her.
Not because she defied him.
But because she survived him.
And because every time she showed her face on the news, every time she spoke in interviews or walked beside Liam Cavendish like she owned the empire she was born to burn, Cassian felt a crack inside the throne he had spent decades building.
Now, that crack was a chasm.
The world had turned.
And he was no longer the king.
He was the villain in exile.
Hayes approache
