THE CONTRACT BRIDE OF CASSIAN VIRELLI

Chapter Eight

ELARA'S POV

Cassian is already sitting at the long dining table.

A thick folder lies open in front of him, while a cup of black coffee is untouched beside it. He doesn't look up right away. For a moment, I stand there and study him without meaning to.

Yesterday had been such a blur that I never truly looked at the man I had married. Now I do. He's tall, much taller than I remembered. His broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his crisp white shirt perfectly. The sleeves are rolled neatly to his forearms, revealing strong hands marked with faint veins. His dark hair falls effortlessly across his forehead, which appears to be neither untidy nor unnatural. His sharp jawline gives him a cold, commanding appearance, while his straight nose and high cheekbones make him look like he belongs on the cover of a magazine.

His grey eyes remain focused on the documents he holds. There's a powerful aura he emits even while sitting. His athletic build is obvious beneath the tailored clothes, and every movement he makes is calm and controlled.

If I were judging him on looks alone… I'd admit he was an incredibly handsome man. Maybe that's part of the problem. People probably trust him because he seems so perfect.

"See something you like?" His voice carries the smallest hint of amusement.

Heat rushes to my face. Great. I'd been caught staring.

I straighten my expression. "You wish."

A faint smirk appears on his lips and disappears. "Sit."

"Good morning to you, too.” I pull out the chair across from him and sit anyway.

Only then does he lift his eyes. "Good morning." The words sound forced, as though he isn't used to saying them.

I can't help smiling. Before either of us speaks again, an older woman enters the room carrying breakfast. Her silver hair mixed with black is tied into a neat bun, and her uniform is spotless. She places a plate in front of me and offers a polite smile.

"Good morning, ma'am."

"Good morning."

She turns toward Cassian. "Sir."

He gives a short nod. I remember seeing her when I first came. Miriam, head of the kitchen staff. She leaves us alone again.

I reach for my glass of orange juice. "Clara said you wanted to see me."

"I did." He closes the folder and slides it across the table to me. "These are the terms of our public arrangement. I want you to read through them before we discuss further.”

Inside are neatly printed pages containing schedules, and a calendar full of different events stretching months into the future, galas, dinners, board functions, all marked with dates and times. Every single event has been carefully arranged. My eyes widen as I continue turning the pages.

It feels less like reading a schedule and more like reading the script for someone else's life, my life. Except I don't remember agreeing to any of it.

"You planned all this?" I ask, flipping another page. "Without asking me.”

"It's standard for marriages like ours.”

“Marriages like ours?" I let out a dry laugh, though what I want to do is throw it across the table. "You mean fake marriages.”

He calmly reaches for his coffee. "No. Public marriages. There's a difference."

I lean back in my chair. "Is there?" He says nothing. I tap the folder with my fingers. "Because from where I'm sitting, it seems you've already planned every day of my future."

"The public expects consistency."

"So?"

"If we suddenly stop appearing together, people will ask questions."

"And that's more important than what I want?”

"It's necessary."

I shake my head. "No. It's necessary for you. My entire life is written inside this folder, Cassian." I flip to another page.

"You've scheduled months of my life without asking whether I even wanted any of it."

He watches me quietly. "I assumed we'd discuss it today."

I almost laugh again. "You mean after you've already decided everything?” I fold my arms. "What about my own plans? My own goals? My own future? Do I get a voice in this marriage?"

His eyes remain fixed on mine. "You do."

"Really?" I lift the folder. "Because this doesn't feel like a discussion. It feels like a list of instructions.”

His expression shows a hint of surprise as if he expected me to quietly accept everything.

"What would you rather do?" he asks.

The question and the calm tone catch me off guard. I take a slow breath. "I want to keep working. I have a degree in business administration. I've spent years building a life of my own, and I'm not willing to give all that up.”

"You want a career."

"I want my own life. I don't want every part of my future to depend on you. I've worked too hard to become independent. I'm not giving that away."

He studies me quietly. The room becomes so quiet that I start remembering Clara's warning not to push him too hard. Maybe I've already gone too far. Maybe this is where he reminds me whose house I'm living in. But I refuse to give in. If I'm going to survive here, I can't spend every day afraid.

"You're serious."

"I am."

Another long silence passes. "Fine,” he says.

I blink. "Fine?"

"You can continue your career."

I stare at him. That wasn't the answer I expected.

He places his coffee cup down. "But."

I sigh."Of course, there's a 'but.'" I roll my eyes.

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. "You'll tell me your schedule ahead of time. Your meetings, work, anywhere you plan to go."

I frown. "Why?"

"So I know where you are."

"Or so you can control that too?"

His face remains unreadable. "So there are no unexpected problems."

"That's not really an answer."

"It's the one I'm giving."

I study him carefully. He's hiding something. I know he is. But whatever it is, he has no intention of sharing it.

"Fine. I'll tell you where I'm going. But I'm only informing you, not asking for permission.”

"Understood."

I swear I heard the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. I glance back at the folder. This is my life now.

I close the folder. "Cassian."

"Yes?"

I hesitate. Then ask the question that's been bothering me since yesterday. "Why does all this matter so much to you? The public image, the rules, the security and schedules. What are you really trying to protect?"

His grey eyes never leave mine. "Everything."

I want to push further, to demand what exactly "everything" means. "That's not an answer.” Frustration rises inside me. He always tends to measure his words carefully.

He stands, picks up his jacket and buttons it. "I have a meeting." He walks to the door.

"Cassian."

He stops and turns around.

"I'm not a decorator nor a trophy. If this marriage is going to work, then you need to remember that I'm still my own person and won't disappear inside your world just because you expect me to."

His expression softens so fast that I almost think I imagined it. "I know." Then he leaves.