The first rule Cassandra learned as Lucien Blackwood's fiancée was this—nothing about him was casual.
The black car waiting outside the building looked less like transportation and more like a weapon: sleek, polished, and silently commanding. The driver opened the door without a word, and Cassandra hesitated only a second before stepping inside. Her stomach twisted. Every instinct screamed at her to run, yet she didn't. She couldn't. Survival had taught her that fear and caution often led to opportunities she didn't want—but needed.
Lucien followed, his presence filling the confined space like a shadow that refused to be ignored. He said nothing as the car glided over the city streets, leaving the familiar chaos of her life behind. The leather seats were warm, soft—too comfortable for her nerves, which felt raw and unprotected.
"You'll attend a charity gala tonight," he said finally, his voice calm, commanding.
Her head jerked toward him. "Tonight?"
"Yes."
"I don't even have a dress," she said, panic threading through her tone.
"You have several now."
Her brows furrowed. "I—"
"They're already at the penthouse," he interrupted smoothly.
Penthouse. The word echoed ominously in her mind. This wasn't her world. Every detail of this life screamed control, precision, dominance. Cassandra had never been in a room where the air itself seemed to judge her, yet here she was, being led through it without a choice.
Lucien leaned slightly toward her. "You will stay close. Speak only when necessary. Let me guide you."
"Guide me where?" she asked, though she already feared the answer.
"Through wolves."
Her stomach turned. The metaphor wasn't subtle. Every encounter from this point on would be a hunt, and she was prey.
The penthouse itself was a labyrinth of elegance. Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the city lights, a panorama of wealth Cassandra had only seen through glass. Chandeliers glimmered above, crystal pendants catching reflections of her anxiety. A woman in black appeared immediately.
"Miss Stone."
Cassandra flinched at the formal address.
"She'll be ready in an hour," Lucien said, not even glancing at her. "Red."
The woman nodded and disappeared, leaving Cassandra standing rigid in the center of the enormous space.
Turning to him, she demanded, "You didn't even ask if I was comfortable with—"
Lucien's eyes darkened slightly, the air around him tightening. "You don't need to be comfortable. You need to be convincing."
Cassandra's throat went dry. His proximity, the subtle threat in his tone, the way his gaze traveled over her like a measurement of worth—it was suffocating. Her chest tightened. This was no protection. This was possession.
The gala itself was chaos wrapped in diamonds.
The moment they entered, cameras flashed, catching her reflection a hundred times over. The hum of whispered questions and startled murmurs followed them. Cassandra felt the weight of every gaze, each glance like fire against her skin.
Lucien's arm slid around her waist effortlessly. Possessive. Unyielding. She caught herself leaning slightly into him, instinctively, and scolded herself mentally. She couldn't allow closeness. Not yet. Not ever, if she wanted to survive the world she had just stepped into.
"Relax," he murmured near her ear. His breath was warm, his words like silk over steel. "They can smell fear."
"Who?" she asked in a whisper.
"Everyone."
The room felt smaller now, the walls lined with society's most dangerous predators disguised in champagne smiles and glittering gowns.
Then she saw her first real challenge.
A woman approached—tall, elegant, smiling with the sharpness of a blade.
"Lucien," she said smoothly. "I didn't know you were engaged."
Lucien's grip tightened subtly around Cassandra's waist. "You never asked, Isabella," he replied evenly.
Isabella's eyes slid to Cassandra. Cold. Measuring. Dangerous. Cassandra felt her breath catch. She wanted to disappear.
"And you are?" the woman prompted, the smile still intact but her voice laced with challenge.
Lucien's dark eyes swept over her like he was marking territory. "My fiancée. Cassandra Blackwood."
The words hit harder than she expected. Her stomach churned. Her role was now public. She had no choice.
Isabella's smile sharpened. "How… unexpected."
Lucien leaned slightly closer, his lips brushing Cassandra's temple in a gesture that could have been tender, but in reality was a public warning.
"She's perfect," he said softly, yet everyone in the vicinity could feel it. His possessiveness radiated like heat. Cassandra froze, the blood rushing to her ears.
She realized something terrifying: he wasn't just protecting her. He was claiming her. The world might see a fiancée, but he saw something much smaller, more fragile—and therefore, more his.
Cassandra's heart pounded. Part of her wanted to pull away, to scream that this wasn't real, that she was not his. But the grip of his arm, the intensity of his gaze, and the heat of his breath against her skin made her hesitate.
Her reflection in the glass walls showed her pale, anxious face framed by the darkness of his suit. She looked like a woman trapped in the wrong world. She was trapped. And the worst part? She had signed her own cage.
Lucien's hand tightened briefly at her waist, a silent reminder.
And in that moment, Cassandra Stone understood something clear and irrevocable:
This wasn't protection. This wasn't just power.
It was possession.
And she had nowhere to hide.