Beneath His Vows

Chapter Six — Cassian

Marriage wasn’t supposed to be this complicated.

Not when it was planned down to the last signature. Not when both parties had reasons to keep quiet. Not when it was supposed to be emotionless.

Yet somehow, Ivy had managed to throw all that out the window in less than forty-eight hours.

She wasn’t soft. She wasn’t predictable. She wasn’t silent like I’d expected.

And she sure as hell wasn’t forgettable.

I leaned against the balcony railing, coffee cooling in my hand, watching her through the second-story window.

She was in the study — the one she wasn’t supposed to find yet — flipping through the books, eyes scanning spines like she was searching for answers.

Let her look.

There was nothing in there that would give her what she wanted.

Not yet.

I turned away before she noticed me watching.

It was better this way. She needed to think I was detached. Unbothered. Cold.

Because if she started digging too deep—

If she connected Elena to the letters—

If she discovered the truth about her mother—

No. That couldn’t happen.

Not yet.

Later that morning, I met Maris in the west wing — the only part of the house Ivy hadn’t explored yet.

“She’s asking questions,” Maris said without looking up from her tablet. “About Elena. About the deal. She’s smart.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

Maris continued, “You should’ve told her more. Given her just enough to keep her still.”

“She wouldn’t have believed me.”

“She still might.”

I looked away. “I don’t want her involved.”

“Then don’t bring her into a war,” Maris said sharply. “Because that’s exactly what this is.”

Her words sat heavy in the air.

She wasn’t wrong.

This wasn’t just about a business merger or a fake marriage. This was about erasing a legacy of betrayal — one that started long before Ivy or I were born.

And still, she was in the middle of it now.

Because of me.

That night, I found her on the rooftop.

She was barefoot, curled in one of the lounge chairs, wrapped in a blanket too thin for the wind. Her hair was messy from the breeze, and her face was turned toward the sky.

She didn’t look up when I approached.

“You could catch a cold,” I said.

“Maybe that’d be more exciting than this arrangement.”

I ignored the jab and sat in the chair beside hers.

Silence stretched between us.

She broke it first.

“What did she do to you?” Her voice was low. Careful.

“Elena.”

I said nothing.

She turned her head slightly, just enough for me to see the outline of her profile in the dark. “You flinch every time someone says her name. That’s not indifference. That’s pain.”

Still, I said nothing.

Because what was I supposed to say? That the woman she saw at the wedding reception used to hold my heart in her hands? That she crushed it with a smile? That she knew exactly how to hurt me — and did it anyway?

“I don’t care who she is,” Ivy said, her voice steady now. “But don’t let her use me as a weapon to get to you.”

I turned to look at her.

Her eyes were sharp. Clear. No trace of the broken girl from the night before.

“She’s not using you,” I said. “I am.”

The words hung there, heavy and cruel.

But Ivy didn’t flinch.

She just nodded slowly, like she already knew.

“You’re not the villain, Cassian,” she said. “You just think it’s safer to pretend you are.”

Then she stood, pulled the blanket tighter, and walked inside.

And for the first time in a very long time, I didn’t feel like I was in control.

Back in my study, I stared at the letter again.

The same one I kept locked in the drawer. The one she hadn’t found yet.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

Her mother’s.

I unfolded it.

You owe me this, Cassian. Keep her safe. No matter what it costs you. Or me.

It had been sent months before the accident. Before the lies. Before Ivy became part of this twisted plan.

I should’ve burned it.

But I couldn’t.

Because part of me still wanted to believe that somewhere in the mess, there was something worth saving.

The next day, I drove Ivy to the first press event.

She wore navy — sharp, elegant, reserved. The exact image of a billionaire’s wife.

But her eyes gave her away.

She was burning.

“You don’t have to speak,” I told her as we pulled up.

“I won’t,” she replied. “But I’ll smile.”

I gave a brief nod.

The cameras were already flashing outside. Reporters waiting like vultures, ready to pick apart body language, hand placement, eye contact.

As I opened her door and reached for her hand, she paused.

“If you’re going to lie to the world,” she said quietly, “at least make it look good.”

Then she laced her fingers through mine.

And smiled like she meant it.