The chemical burn was worse than Amara expected.
She knelt over the porcelain sink, sweat beading on her forehead as the bleach ate into her scalp—a slow, searing fire. Her dark roots surrendered to pale gold, but the pain was nothing compared to the hollowness in her chest. This is what betrayal feels like, she thought, watching the murky water swirl down the drain. Not just of Selene. Of myself.
When Marcella returned, Amara stood transformed. Platinum strands framed her face like liquid moonlight. Her eyes, usually warm as cognac, now glowed like chips of amber against the new, alien palette of her skin.
"Perfect," Marcella breathed, circling her like a jeweler inspecting a diamond. "You'll do." She pressed a passport into Amara's hand—Selene Veyron, stamped with a photo that wasn't hers. "The Drevane jet departs at noon. Cassian expects silence. Obedience. And blonde hair." Her smile turned glacial. "Fail, and your mother's library becomes auction fodder by sunset."
The Drevane Gulfstream was less an aircraft, more a steel-and-glass sarcophagus hurtling through the sky. Amara sat rigid in a cream leather seat, her borrowed gown (Selene's, of course—ivory silk, backless, humiliatingly revealing) clinging to her like a second skin. Outside, the Mediterranean glittered, indifferent.
Then the door to the cockpit hissed open.
Cassian Drevane filled the doorway.
He wasn't what she'd imagined. Not the cold, silver-haired patriarch of tabloid lore, but a man carved from shadow and sharp angles—mid-thirties, with eyes the color of storm clouds and a jawline that could cut glass. His charcoal suit fit like armor. He didn't glance at her. Didn't speak. Just sank into the seat opposite, flipping open a tablet as if she were part of the cabin's décor.
Good, Amara thought, smoothing her hands over her knees. Let him think I'm just another mannequin.
She pulled a slim volume from her bag—The Prince, in Italian—and began to read.
Cassian's head snapped up. "You speak Italian?" His voice was low, rough as unpolished stone.
Amara froze. Selene barely spoke French. She should have lied. Stayed silent. But pride flared hot in her throat. She met his gaze. "Enough to know virtù isn't virtue. It's cunning."
A flicker in his eyes. Interest. Then disdain. "A librarian quoting Machiavelli? How… quaint." He tapped his tablet. "Your job is to look beautiful and stay quiet. Not to think."
Amara's pulse hammered, but she didn't flinch. "Then why marry at all? Hire a mannequin. Or a ghost."
Cassian went very still. For the first time, he truly saw her—not the blonde hair, not the borrowed dress—but the woman beneath. His gaze dropped to the book in her hands, then to the faint tremor in her fingers. "You're not Selene Veyron."
The words hung like a guillotine.
Amara's blood turned to ice. He knows.
But Cassian leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper that skated down her spine. "Selene would have simpered. Begged for approval. You…" He traced a finger over the Italian text she'd been reading. "You corrected my assistant's translation of virtù yesterday. He didn't tell me you were on the flight."
Amara's breath caught. He'd been watching her since Monaco.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The truth surged in her throat—I'm Amara. I'm not her. I'm here because I had no choice—but Marcella's threat echoed: Your mother's library… gone.
So Amara did what she did best.
She lied.
"I'm exactly who you paid for," she said, her voice steady as she closed the book. "A Veyron. Blonde. Obedient." She let her gaze drop demurely. "And very quiet."
Cassian studied her for a long moment. Then, to her shock, he laughed—a low, dark sound like thunder rolling over cliffs. "Obedience is overrated." He rose, towering over her. "But silence? Silence has power." His hand brushed her cheek, startlingly gentle. "Keep it. For now."
As he walked back to the cockpit, Amara's heart pounded against her ribs. He knows something's wrong. But he doesn't know what.
Then the jet hit turbulence.
Amara gasped as she was thrown sideways—straight into Cassian's chest. His arms locked around her instinctively, one hand splayed against the small of her back, the other cradling her head. For three heartbeats, she was pressed against him: the heat of his body, the cedar-and-ink scent of his skin, the frantic drum of his heart against hers.
He's not indifferent, she realized with a jolt. He's terrified.
The turbulence passed. Cassian released her as if burned. But as he turned away, Amara caught it—a single, perfect tear tracking through the stubble on his jaw. Gone before she could blink.
Why would a man who owns islands cry over turbulence?
Drevane Hall materialized at dusk—a fortress of glass and steel clinging to the French Riviera's cliffs. Rain lashed the panoramic windows as Cassian led her through cavernous, sterile rooms. No art. No books. Just cold surfaces and the hum of hidden cameras.
"This is your suite," he said, gesturing to a room that looked like a luxury prison cell: king bed, white everything, a balcony overlooking the stormy sea. "Dinner is at eight. Don't be late."
Amara stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind her. She crossed to the balcony, desperate for air.