Chapter 2– The Rules To first crack
1672 Words
Elio stared at it until the screen went dark, heart thudding against his ribs like a trapped bird learning it might actually be allowed to fly.
Elio woke to sunlight pouring through windows taller than his old apartment. For three full seconds he forgot where he was. Then the black silk sheets slid against his skin, the rose-scented air hit his lungs, and panic clawed up his throat.
He was married. To a vampire CEO. In a penthouse that probably had its own zip code.
A soft knock saved him from spiraling. Mrs. Wu entered with a breakfast tray: croissants, strawberries cut into roses, a single espresso in a cup the color of Cassian’s eyes. “Master Cassian is in the gym. He requests you join him at nine for ground rules.”
Elio glanced at the clock: 8:27. He inhaled the croissant in four bites, nearly choked on the espresso, and spent ten minutes trying to tame his curls in a mirror the size of a billboard. The walk-in closet now held rows of clothes in his exact size—soft sweaters, tailored jeans, even sneakers that didn’t have holes. He chose the least intimidating outfit: cream sweater, dark jeans, and a pair of socks with tiny roses embroidered on the ankles. A gift from Sera, Mrs. Wu had said.
The gym was on the lower level, all glass walls and city views. Cassian was shirtless, hitting a punching bag with controlled violence. Every strike echoed like a heartbeat. Sweat traced the lines of his back, catching on scars Elio wanted to ask about but didn’t dare.
Cassian caught the bag mid-swing, turning. “Good. You’re punctual.”
Elio’s mouth went dry. Cassian’s chest was a map of old battles—silver lines crossing muscle like lightning. He grabbed a towel, draping it over his shoulders, and suddenly Elio could breathe again.
“Rules,” Cassian said, gesturing to a bench. They sat, knees almost touching. “One: you attend university as normal. A driver will take you. Two: public appearances when I require—galas, premieres, nothing excessive. Three: separate bedrooms. Always.”
Elio nodded too quickly. “Got it. No sharing beds.”
Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “Four: you do not leave the penthouse without telling me. Not for milk, not for air. Understood?”
Elio’s stomach twisted. “Am I a prisoner?”
“You’re a target,” Cassian corrected. “Your stepfather borrowed from people who don’t forgive. Until the debt is fully erased, you stay safe.”
Safe. The word tasted foreign. Elio picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “What about Teo? My little brother. Can he visit?”
Cassian hesitated. “Arrangements can be made.”
Relief flooded Elio so fast he almost smiled. “Thank you.”
“Five,” Cassian continued, voice softer, “you ask for anything you need. Money, books, art supplies. You never apologize for taking up space here.”
Elio blinked. “I’m good at apologizing. It’s basically my major.”
Cassian’s mouth did that almost-smile again. “We’ll break you of that.”
Footsteps pattered in. Sera appeared in the doorway wearing a tutu over pajamas, clutching a stuffed bat. “Papa, you promised pancakes!”
Cassian sighed like a man surrendering a war. “After my shower, little star.”
Sera turned to Elio. “You like blueberries or chocolate chips?”
“Both?” Elio offered.
She squealed, grabbing his hand. “Come help! Papa burns everything.”
In the kitchen, Elio discovered Cassian in sweatpants was somehow more dangerous than Cassian in suits. He leaned against the counter, scrolling through a tablet, pretending not to watch Elio flip pancakes with Sera perched on a stool beside him.
“Higher!” Sera demanded. Elio tossed one; it landed perfectly. She cheered.
Cassian’s gaze flicked up, something warm flickering there before he buried it again.
Mrs. Wu slipped Elio a note: Young master’s driver is ready at 10:30. First day back to class.
Elio’s stomach dropped. He’d forgotten the world outside existed.
Cassian set the tablet down. “I’ll ride with you today. Make sure everything goes smoothly.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I do.” Final. Undebatable.
In the garage, a black Rolls-Royce waited. The driver—a tall man with kind eyes and a scar across his eyebrow—opened the door. “Morning, Mr. Vale. Mr. Rovere.”
Elio slid in beside Cassian, hyper-aware of the inch of space between their thighs. The car purred into traffic.
Cassian spoke without looking up from his phone. “Your schedule is in the shared calendar. I’ve cleared my morning.”
Elio stared. “You… synced our calendars?”
“Efficiency,” Cassian said, but his ears looked pink.
At NYU, students whispered as the Rolls stopped. Elio stepped out, backpack slung over one shoulder, Cassian behind him like a shadow in sunglasses. Heads turned. Phones lifted.
Cassian leaned close, voice low. “Ignore them. You belong here.”
Elio’s heart stuttered. He wanted to ask what here meant—NYU? The car? Cassian’s life?—but the vampire was already walking away, phone to his ear, leaving Elio drowning in expensive cologne and confusion.
Inside the lecture hall, Elio opened his new phone. A new notification glowed.
Cassian ♡: Text when you’re done. I’ll be outside.
Below it, a single red rose emoji.
Elio stared until the professor called his name twice.
He was married to a man who set ground rules like prison bars and sent flower emojis like apologies.
And for the first time in years, Elio didn’t feel invisible.
Elio’s first week as “Mr. Vale” passed in a blur of whispered campus rumors and midnight pancakes with Sera.
By Friday he could find the kitchen without Mrs. Wu’s guidance, and he’d stopped flinching every time Cassian entered a room. Progress.
That evening, Cassian texted:
Cassian ♡: Gala tonight. 7 p.m. Wear the midnight-blue suit. Luca will brief you.
Elio stared at the suit hanging in his closet—silk so dark it drank light, tiny silver roses embroidered along the lapel. It probably cost more than his tuition. He sent back a thumbs-up emoji because words felt too big.
At six-thirty, a man sauntered into the penthouse like he owned it. Late twenties, tousled chestnut hair, devil-may-care grin, wearing a three-piece suit the color of champagne. “You must be the pretty husband,” he said, kissing Elio’s knuckles before Elio could jerk away. “Luca Moretti, Cassian’s… everything. At your service.”
Heat flooded Elio’s face. “Hi. Please don’t do that.”
Luca laughed, bright and unrepentant. “Relax, tesoro. I’m the fun one.” He steered Elio to a mirror, adjusting the silk pocket square with practiced flicks. “Rule one: never let them see you nervous. Rule two: if Cassian growls, you’ve done something right.”
Elio swallowed. “There are photographers?”
“More than you can count. You’re the mystery boy who tamed the Ice King. They’ll want blood.” Luca’s grin sharpened. “Figuratively, of course.”
Cassian appeared in the doorway, tuxedo midnight-black, cufflinks blood-red rubies. His gaze swept over Elio and stilled. For three heartbeats the penthouse felt airless.
“You look…” Cassian started, then cleared his throat. “Acceptable.”
Luca snorted. “He means you look edible, but he’s allergic to compliments.”
(Author😏:Yeah right
Cassian’s glare could have frozen oceans. “Car. Now.”
The gala was held at the Met, chandeliers dripping diamonds, champagne flowing like water. Elio clung to Cassian’s arm, palm sweating against expensive wool. Cameras flashed the moment they stepped onto the red carpet.
“Mr. Vale! Who’s your date?”
“Is it true you married in secret?”
“Over here, darling!”
Cassian’s grip tightened, guiding Elio forward with a hand at the small of his back. The touch burned through layers of silk. “Smile,” Cassian murmured against his ear. “They’ll print whatever they want anyway.”
Inside, Luca materialized with two flutes of something red and sparkling. “Cranberry prosecco,” he assured Elio. “No blood. Yet.”
Elio gulped half of it in one go.
For an hour they circulated. Cassian introduced him as “my husband, Elio Vale” with possessive pride that made Elio’s stomach flip. Old men in tuxedos shook his hand. Women in gowns air-kissed his cheeks. Someone asked if he was an intern. Someone else asked if he was Cassian’s new charity case. Elio laughed it off because Cassian’s fingers were suddenly laced through his, squeezing once—steady.
Then a voice like frostbite cut through the crowd.
“Cassian, darling. You didn’t tell me you’d brought a child to play dress-up.”
Vivienne Laurent glided toward them in a gown the color of spilled merlot, blonde hair coiled like a crown. She was stunning and ancient—eyes the pale blue of glacier ice. Elio recognized her from Forbes: fashion empire, rumored vampire royalty.
Cassian’s entire body went rigid. “Vivienne.”
She ignored him, gaze pinning Elio. “And you must be the little artist everyone’s whispering about.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “How quaint.”
Elio’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Vivienne extended a hand glittering with rings. “Dance with me.”
It wasn’t a request.
Cassian stepped forward, but Elio—heart hammering—placed a hand on his chest. “It’s fine,” he said softly. “One dance.”
Cassian’s jaw flexed, but he let go.
On the dance floor, Vivienne’s grip was cold iron. “He’ll tire of you,” she whispered as they swayed. “Mortals always break. And when he does, I’ll be waiting.”
Elio’s spine straightened. “He chose me. Not you.”
Surprise flickered across her perfect face. Then she laughed, low and venomous. “Enjoy the illusion while it lasts, little rose.”
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