Heart of the Rebel Mate

6

"Mr. Veyne," I reply, my voice steady even as my chest tightens. My fingers dig into the folder in front of me, grounding myself against the flood of memories crashing over me.

Cassian takes a seat at the far end of the table, his movements unhurried, every inch of him exuding control. The sight of him here, in this room, is enough to make my stomach twist. Once, he was my fated mate—a bond I thought would last forever. We'd had something extraordinary, or at least I believed we did.

I loved him with everything I had, and for a time, I thought he felt the same. Our relationship had been intense, passionate, but also easy in a way that felt natural. I'd trusted him with every part of myself. And then, slowly, he began to pull away. At first, I hadn't noticed. He was busy, I told myself. Distracted. But the distance between us grew until I couldn't ignore it anymore.

When I confronted him, his words gutted me. "You're too human for me, Elara," he'd said, his voice calm, detached, as if he weren't tearing my world apart. "This isn't what I need."

The rejection shattered me. The bond I'd believed was unbreakable had meant nothing to him. He'd walked away without a second thought, leaving me to pick up the pieces alone. I moved to a new city, deleted his number, and built walls so high I thought nothing could get through. And now, here he is, sitting across from me as if none of it ever happened.

The meeting begins, but it's all a blur. I go through the motions, presenting my project with practiced ease, answering questions without faltering. All the while, I can feel Cassian's gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting. I don't look at him—I can't. Not without risking everything I've worked so hard to rebuild.

When the meeting ends, the investors rise, their polite murmurs filling the room as they file out. Cassian doesn't move. He stays seated, his silver eyes fixed on me, and for a moment, the air between us feels unbearably heavy.

Finally, he stands, his movements slow and deliberate as he approaches. "You've done well," he says, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. "You've come a long way."

I meet his gaze, my expression carefully neutral. "Thank you," I reply, my voice sharper than I intend.

His jaw tightens, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face. "Be careful," he says after a moment. "Not everyone in that room wants to see you succeed."

The warning feels like a challenge, but I refuse to rise to it. Instead, I gather my notes and leave the room, my steps steady and deliberate. I don't look back. Whatever Cassian Veyne is doing here, it doesn't matter. He's the past, and I've spent too long rebuilding my life to let him shake it now.

The room hums with fake-ass laughter and pretentious conversations, and I curse my f*****g department head for dumping this bullshit on me, leaving me to beg for money like some desperate salesperson. Clutching a glass of champagne, I scan the room, every polished face making me want to get the hell out of here.

The scent hits me before I see him—clean, sharp, and irritatingly familiar. My gaze snaps to the bar, and there he is. Adrian Kane, leaning casually against the polished wood, his dark suit perfectly tailored, the loosened tie giving him an air of effortless control. He looks so at ease it grates, even in a room full of people trained to pretend they own the place.

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, his brows lift slightly, as if he's genuinely surprised to see me here. Then, just as quickly, his expression shifts into something unreadable, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He pushes off the bar, moving toward me with that deliberate, unhurried grace that's as infuriating as it is magnetic.

"Elara Thorne," he says smoothly, his voice carrying just enough curiosity to make it sting. "I didn't expect to see you here. What brings you to an event like this?"

"Adrian," I reply, my voice even, though my grip on the champagne flute tightens slightly. "Should I be asking you the same thing?"

He chuckles, a low, rich sound that seems to draw attention without him even trying. "Fair enough," he says, tilting his head slightly. "Though I have to admit, I didn't peg you for the networking type."

"Networking," I say, letting the word hang between us for a moment before I tilt my glass toward him. "Interesting assumption. Are you suggesting I'm here to beg for money?"

His grin sharpens, the faintest glint of amusement flashing in his eyes. "I wouldn't put it that bluntly," he says, though the tone suggests he very much would. "But it's not exactly your usual scene, is it?"

"And this is yours?" I counter, arching a brow. "Though I suppose it's easier for you to show up and look interested when the Council sends you to meddle."

His grin widens, his expression maddeningly calm. "Meddling, is it?" he says lightly, stepping closer, his voice dipping just enough to feel more private. "Maybe I'm just here for the free champagne."

"Of course you are," I reply, meeting his gaze head-on. "And I'm sure the Council has nothing to do with it."

He chuckles again, the sound low and infuriatingly warm.

As I lower my glass, movement near the bar catches my attention. My breath stalls as I spot him—Cassian. His presence feels like a physical blow, the room narrowing around him. He stands straight-backed, his dark suit as impeccable as ever, his gaze scanning the crowd with practiced ease. My pulse quickens, and I instinctively step closer to Adrian, my fingers tightening slightly around the stem of my glass.

Adrian notices the shift immediately, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. "You alright?" he asks, his tone softer, edged with curiosity.

"I'm fine," I say too quickly, forcing a smile that feels brittle. "I just—" My gaze flickers back toward Cassian, and I swallow hard, shifting slightly so Adrian's frame blocks my line of sight. "I need to go."

Before I can move, Adrian tilts his head, his expression sharpening as his gaze follows mine briefly. Though he doesn't seem to piece it together, he steps into my space just enough to shield me further. "What's going on?" he asks, his voice lower now, more insistent.

"Nothing," I say, my voice clipped. "Just—just let me pass."

"Not buying it," he murmurs, his hand moving quickly to catch my wrist as I turn to leave. "Come on," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Adrian—" I start, but he's already moving, tugging me gently but firmly away from the main floor. My protests falter as he weaves us through the crowd, his grip steady but not harsh, his broad frame keeping me out of sight.