Signed to Obey

The broken walls

The bass was a living thing, pounding through the mansion like a heartbeat I wished I had.

It shook the walls, rattled the overpriced vases, and probably pissed off every ghost haunting this sterile palace.

Good.

If Cassian wanted to play secret meetings with Clarissa Milton, I’d make sure he came home to me—loud, messy, and impossible to ignore.

I stood in the middle of my room, barefoot, in a tank top and shorts that barely qualified as clothing, my curls wild from pacing.

The music—some gritty rock anthem I didn’t even care about—blared from the speaker on my nightstand, loud enough to drown out the thoughts clawing at my brain.

Jealousy.

That’s what it was. I hated it. Hated the way it twisted my stomach, made my hands shake, made me want to punch something—preferably his perfect face.

I wasn’t supposed to care.

This was a contract, a deal, a paycheck.

Cassian Wolfe wasn’t mine, and I didn’t want him to be.

So why did the thought of Clarissa’s manicured claws on him make me want to scream?

Because she was everything I wasn’t.

Polished. Poised. Born for his world.

The kind of woman who’d slip into his life like a key into a lock, while I was just the wrecking ball he’d hired to keep her out.

I turned the volume up higher, letting the music bruise the silence.

If he wanted to play games, I’d play louder.

The door to my room flew open.

Cassian stood there, his suit as pristine as ever, but his eyes were a storm—dark, sharp, and pissed.

He didn’t say a word, just strode in like he owned the air I was breathing.

Which, technically, he did.

“Turn it off,” he said, voice low, cutting through the music like a knife.

I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall, my chin tilted up.

“No.”

His jaw ticked, that tiny tell that said I’d hit a nerve.

“Eden. Turn. It. Off.”

I smirked, stepping closer, the bass vibrating through my bones.

“What’s wrong, Cassian? Did your little date with Clarissa not go as planned? Need some peace and quiet to sulk?”

His eyes narrowed, and for a second, I thought he’d snap.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, cold as ever, his gaze raking over me like I was a problem he hadn’t solved yet.

“It wasn’t a date,” he said, his voice so calm it was infuriating.

“And you’re acting like a child.”

“Oh, I’m the child?” I laughed, sharp and bitter, stepping closer until we were toe-to-toe.

“You’re the one sneaking off to meet your ex-fiancée or whatever the hell she is, while I’m stuck here playing your fake wife. You don’t get to lecture me about maturity.”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t move—just stared down at me with that infuriating indifference.

“You’re jealous.”

The word landed like a slap.

My breath caught, and I hated how my cheeks burned, how my hands curled into fists.

“Jealous?” I forced a laugh, but it came out too tight, too raw.

“Of her? Please. She’s a walking trust fund with a side of desperation. I’m not jealous. I’m pissed.”

“Pissed,” he repeated, his tone mocking, like he was dissecting me.

“Because I met with someone? Or because you think it means something?”

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

My heart was pounding too loud, my pulse a traitor giving me away.

I didn’t want to care. I didn’t want to feel this—this stupid, clawing thing that made me want to scream or cry or maybe both.

“You don’t get to do this,” I said, my voice quieter now, but sharp enough to cut.

“You don’t get to waltz off with her, then come back and act like I’m just a piece of furniture you bought. I’m here, Cassian. I’m in this. And I don’t care if it’s fake, but I deserve better than being your afterthought.”

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes.

Not anger. Not annoyance.

Something softer—something that made my stomach twist in a way I didn’t want to name.

He stepped closer, the space between us shrinking to nothing.

“You’re not an afterthought,” he said, his voice low, almost gentle, but still edged with that cold control.

“You’re my wife.”

“Fake wife,” I whispered, but it lacked the venom I wanted.

My eyes burned, and I hated it—hated how exposed I felt, how his gaze seemed to peel back every layer I’d built to protect myself.

And then, without warning, he reached for me.

His arms wrapped around me, pulling me into a hug that was so unexpected, so warm, I froze.

His chest was solid, his scent—cedar and steel—overwhelming.

For a split second, I let myself lean into it, let the weight of his touch anchor me.

It wasn’t just a hug; it was a c***k in his armor, a moment where the ice melted, and I could almost believe he cared.

Almost.

Then he pulled back—abrupt and sharp—like he’d caught himself betraying something.

His face shut down, the softness gone, replaced by that familiar, glacial mask.

“Don’t mistake this for something it’s not,” he said, his voice cold again, cutting through the warmth like a blade.

“This is business. Nothing more.”

I stared at him, my heart still racing, my skin tingling where his hands had been.

I wanted to scream, to shove him, to demand he explain what the hell that was.

But I didn’t.

Because I saw it—the flicker in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched like he was fighting himself.

He wasn’t as untouchable as he wanted to be.

And that was enough to keep me standing.

I forced a smile, sharp and defiant.

“Business, huh? Then you better get used to me making it messy.”

I turned the music back on, louder than before, and walked past him, my shoulder brushing his just enough to say I’m not done with you.

He didn’t stop me.

But I felt his eyes on me as I left,

and for the first time, I wondered if I wasn’t the only one fighting something I didn’t want to name.

---

Cassian’s POV

She was a storm I hadn’t predicted.

I stood in her room, the music pounding through me like a pulse I didn’t want.

Eden was gone—her footsteps echoing down the hall—but her presence lingered.

Sharp. Wild. Infuriatingly alive.

The air still held her scent, something warm and unpolished—nothing like the calculated floral of Clarissa’s perfume.

Clarissa.

The meeting had been a waste of time, a desperate play from a woman who thought she could bend me with a touch and a whisper.

She’d miscalculated.

I didn’t want her.

I didn’t want anyone.

Except…

I closed my eyes, the memory of Eden’s face burning behind my lids.

The way her voice had cracked, just for a second, when she’d said, “I deserve better.”

The way her eyes had flashed with something raw—not just anger or defiance. Hurt. Vulnerability.

A glimpse of the woman beneath the sarcasm—the woman who’d signed my contract but refused to let me own her.

And I’d hugged her.

Goddamn it, I’d hugged her.

It wasn’t planned.

Wasn’t calculated.

It was instinct.

A moment of weakness I hadn’t allowed myself in years.

Her words had hit something—some buried nerve I’d forgotten I had.

And for a moment, I’d wanted to fix it. To take that hurt away.

To feel her against me like she was more than a clause in a contract.

Stupid.

I walked out of her room, the music still blaring, and headed to my study.

The door clicked shut behind me, sealing out the noise—but not the chaos she’d left in my head.

I poured a scotch, the glass cold against my palm. But I didn’t drink.

I didn’t trust myself to feel anything else tonight.

She was jealous.

She’d denied it, laughed it off, but I’d seen it.

The way her lips had tightened.

The way her hands had clenched when she’d mentioned Clarissa.

It wasn’t just anger.

It was personal.

And that was dangerous.

Because Eden wasn’t just a variable anymore.

She was a fault line, threatening to c***k everything I’d built—my control, my distance, my life.

I sat at my desk, staring at the journal I’d caught her almost touching days ago.

It was locked. Always locked.

But her curiosity had lingered—like her defiance.

Like her voice.

She didn’t belong here.

In my world. In my house. In my head.

But she was here.

And for the first time in three months,

I wasn’t sure I wanted her gone.

I pushed the thought away—hard—and opened my laptop.

Work. Control. Order.

That’s what I knew. That’s what I was.

Not a man who hugged a woman because her pain felt like his own.

Not a man who softened.

Not a man who cared.

I typed a message to my assistant:

> Cancel any further meetings with Clarissa Milton. Permanently.

Then I leaned back, the music still faintly audible through the walls,

and let myself feel the smallest c***k in my armor.

Just for a moment.

Then I shut it down.