I didn't move for a full minute after Cassian left.
He knows.
The truth echoed in the hollow where fear had lived. He knows I'm not Selene. But he hadn't exposed me. Hadn't demanded the library's destruction. Hadn't touched me.
No baby-making process. The realization hit like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. I pressed my palm flat against the mattress—no weight beside me, no stranger's breath on my neck. Just the cool cotton sheet and the ghost of his thumb tracing my scar. He watched me sleep but didn't cross the threshold. Relief flooded me, so fierce it burned my eyes. Mama's books are safe for one more day.
But then his words slithered back: "I bought Selene Veyron. I got you instead."
Why a blonde? I turned the question over in my mind like a rare manuscript. A trust amendment shouldn't demand a specific hair color. Cassian's explanation felt thin—a bandage over a bullet wound. Grandma's monocle flashed when she said "weak chins like Julian's wife." Clarisse's ink-stained pinky tapping her thigh. The way Cassian's storm-gray eyes had dropped to my scar at the altar. This isn't about money. It's about bloodlines. About secrets.
I swung my legs out of bed, bare feet hitting marble. The truth is deeper. Cassian hadn't just needed a blonde. He'd needed Selene—or someone who looked like her. Why? Was it about her genes? Her mother's lineage? Or something darker? Something tied to that scar on Cassian's wrist—the restorer's mark mirroring mine?
The Bath (A.K.A. How to Wash Away Doubt)
The shower water was scalding, but I barely felt it. Scrub the wig's chemicals from your scalp. Scrub the fear from your bones. Steam swallowed the room, thick as the questions choking me. He knew from the jet. He watched me sleep. He gave me until Wednesday.
Why?
• If he wanted to destroy me, he'd have exposed me at the wedding.
• If he wanted Selene, he'd have sent me back to Marcella.
• If he wanted the trust amendment, he'd have demanded we "conceive" last night.
I pressed my forehead against the tile, the scar on my wrist burning. He's playing a different game. Cassian Drevane wasn't just a cold billionaire obsessed with blondes. He was a man with a scar, a trust amendment deadline, and a hunger for something I hadn't yet named. And I'm the wrong key to his lock.
The water ran cold. I turned it off, shivering. Stop thinking. Just survive. I dried my hair roughly—dark roots bleeding through the ashy gold—and pulled on the plain cotton dress I'd buried beneath Selene's lace. Amara Veyron doesn't wear silk armor.
Breakfast (A.K.A. How to Sit Across From a Storm)
The dining room was a study in controlled chaos. Sunlight streamed through arched windows, gilding the Orada Sea beyond. Cassian sat at the far end of the table—a fortress of polished walnut separating us—his storm-gray eyes scanning a tablet. He wore a charcoal suit, crisp as a lawsuit, his hair perfectly tousled. The perfect heir.
I took the chair farthest from him, the legs scraping like a death knell. Reluctantly sat down. My hands trembled as I reached for the silver coffee pot. Selene would have let him pour. Amara serves herself.
"Good morning," I murmured, keeping my voice breathy and vacant. The performance continues.
Cassian didn't look up. "You slept."
It wasn't a question. It was an observation—cold, precise, unnerving. He counted my hours. I poured coffee into a bone-china cup, the tremor in my hand making the liquid slosh. Don't spill. Don't speak French. Don't breathe wrong.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken threats. Outside, the sea roared. Inside, the only sound was the clink of my spoon against porcelain as I stirred sugar into the coffee I wouldn't drink. He's waiting for me to crack.
Then he spoke—low, lethal, cutting through the quiet. "You didn't ask why I didn't come to your room last night."
My spoon froze mid-stir. The prayer. He heard me.
I forced Selene's airy laugh. "Why would I? You're my husband. You can do what you—"
"I chose not to." He finally looked up, his gaze pinning me like a specimen. "You prayed for darkness. I gave you silence." His thumb traced the scar on his wrist—the restorer's mark. "Why?"
Trap. My pulse hammered. He wants me to confess. I shrugged, stirring the coffee again. "I was tired. Nervous. Isn't that what brides do?"
Cassian leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You didn't pray for love. You prayed for time." His voice dropped. "'Don't come to this room tonight.'" He repeated my words like a verdict. "Why would a woman marrying for money fear her husband's touch?"
He thinks I'm Selene's greedy cousin. The lie I'd spun last night—"I wanted his money"—felt flimsy under his scrutiny. Think, Amara. Trade.
I met his storm-gray eyes, Selene's vacant smile locked in place. "Maybe I heard stories about you." A calculated risk. "Julian said you were... thorough with duties."
A flicker in his face—anger? Regret?—gone in a heartbeat. He pushed back from the table, the chair scraping like a scream. "Eat your breakfast."
I reached for the bread basket, my fingers brushing a croissant still warm from the oven. Just food. Just survival. I lifted it toward my plate—
Cassian's hand shot out. Not to stop me. To place a single document on the table between us.
Not a menu. Not a trust amendment.
A CONTRACT.
The word screamed from the first line in bold, black type:
CONTRACT
My breath caught. The library. Marcella's threat. Cassian's deadline. Every fear I'd carried since Monaco surged into my throat. This is it. He's ending it.
I didn't reach for it. Didn't blink. Just stared at that word—CONTRACT—like it was a live wire. Is it divorce papers? A new prenup? A bill of sale for Mama's library?
Cassian's voice cut through the silence, low and dangerous: "Sign it, and the library stays safe."
He stood, towering over me. Sunlight caught the scar on his wrist—the restorer's mark mirroring mine.
"Or don't," he added, his storm-gray eyes burning into mine. "And lose everything."