Chapter 4
1051 Words
Sunlight slides across the penthouse windows like it owns the place. The city hums faintly below—horns, laughter, the pulse of people who don’t know that half their morning news cycle belongs to me.
I sip my coffee and scroll through headline after ,.
THE VALES: LUXURY’S NEW LOVE STORY
BILLION-DOLLAR ROMANCE STEALS THE NIGHT
Every photo looks too perfect. My laugh frozen mid-smile, Cassian’s hand at my back, both of us gleaming like we stepped out of a marketing campaign.
Across the kitchen, Cassian sits at the marble island, reading something on his tablet. Not the news—of course not. He’s already in work mode, sleeves rolled up, coffee untouched, focus razor-sharp.
“We’re trending,” I say, because the silence is starting to feel like a wall.
“Mm.” He doesn’t look up.
“You don’t sound impressed.”
He scrolls once more before replying. “Publicity isn’t impressive. It’s predictable.”
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
His tone is clipped, but when he finally glances up, there’s a trace of humor—so faint it might’ve been imagined.
I drop my phone onto the counter. “People online think we’re in love. That photo of you helping me after the champagne spill? Viral. Someone even made a fan edit.”
He arches a brow. “A what?”
I grin. “Never mind. You wouldn’t survive social media.”
“I survive quarterly reports,” he says dryly. “That’s enough.”
He stands to refill his mug, moving with the same deliberate calm as always, but there’s something quieter about him this morning. His tie’s missing. His hair’s slightly undone. For Cassian Vale, that’s practically chaos.
I should have looked away, but I didn't.
He notices. Of course he does.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
“No,” I say too quickly. “Just wondering if billionaires ever take days off.”
He gives a small, almost-smile. “Only when the market crashes.”
He’s teasing me. Cassian Vale—human iceberg—teasing me.
Cassian settles back onto the stool opposite me. The city light catches in his coffee, turning it the color of burnished bronze.
He studies his tablet again, but I can tell he isn’t really reading; his eyes flick to the reflection of my phone screen more than once.
“You could at least pretend to care about your newfound celebrity status,” I say.
He hums without looking up. “If I start pretending, I might forget how to stop.”
“Maybe you should try. Pretending can be… freeing.”
He lifts his gaze. “You speak from experience?”
“Every day since we signed that contract.”
For a heartbeat neither of us speaks. The air hums with the low buzz of morning traffic and something else—something fragile.
He breaks it first. “The car will pick us up at ten. Paparazzi are still camping outside. Take the back exit.”
I blink. “You’re giving me secret-agent instructions now?”
“I’m giving you a way to avoid unnecessary noise.”
“Noise?” I scoff. “They’re people, Cassian. Reporters, fans, maybe just curious tourists.”
“They’re distractions,” he says evenly. “And distractions get expensive.”
That last word slices through the calm like paper tearing. I stare at him, trying to find the man who caught a glass of champagne mid-air for me last night.
“So that’s what you think I am? An expense?”
His expression shifts, almost imperceptibly. “That’s not what I said.”
“But that’s what you meant.”
He sighs—a soft sound, but enough to melt a bit of the marble around him. “Aria, you know how the world works. They’re already measuring you in headlines per hour. I’m trying to protect you from that.”
“By locking me indoors?”
“By giving you a choice.”
I exhale, tension deflating into something almost tender. “You’re bad at explaining kindness, you know that?”
He looks faintly amused. “You’re assuming it’s kindness.”
“Isn’t it?”
He hesitates just long enough to matter. “Maybe.”
For a second, that single word feels heavier than the whole conversation.
The argument fades like steam off the coffee. Cassian returns to his tablet; I pretend to read a message that isn’t there. Between us sits a silence thick enough to touch.
I carry my cup to the balcony. The morning air is cool and salted with exhaust, a reminder that the world keeps moving whether we speak or not. Down below, traffic glitters; up here, everything is glass and calm and too careful.
Through the reflection, I watch him. He hasn’t turned a page in five minutes. His jaw works once, as if he’s chewing on a thought he’ll never say aloud. I should leave him to it. Instead, I linger.
The balcony door slides open behind me. Cassian sets a fresh cup on the railing—mine gone cold.
“You’ll need a warmer one,” he says quietly.
I glance at him. “Is that your way of apologizing?”
His mouth twitches. “If it works.”
“It might.”
He doesn’t step closer, just lets the breeze carry his cologne into the space between us. I take the cup; the heat seeps into my palms faster than I expect.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“You’re welcome.” The words sound strange coming from him, soft, human.
When he goes back inside, I stay. The city yawns awake beneath a sky rinsed clean by sunlight. I trace a finger through the condensation on the glass, sketching the outline of the skyline he once drew.
Maybe this is how it starts, not with grand gestures or declarations, but with small, deliberate warmth. A shared morning. A quiet apology in the form of coffee.
I take another sip. It’s stronger, darker, exactly how he drinks it. It tastes like the truth neither of us is ready to name.
And for the first time since the contract, I don’t feel like a guest in his world.
For a fleeting second, I feel like I belong here.
- Writer
