The next morning, Cassian was already awake.
Or maybe he had never slept at all.
He was sitting on the sofa in yesterday’s shirt and slacks, looking like a man who had spent the night simmering instead of resting. His hair was slightly messed, there were dark circles under his eyes, and the tight line of his jaw made it clear he was still annoyed.
The moment he saw me step out of my room, he straightened.
“You’re up,” he said. “I had the jet prepared for Blightmoor. You said before that you wanted to go there, didn’t you? I’ll take you myself. Call the office and clear your schedule.”
He said it so casually, as if nothing had happened the night before. As if bringing Odette into our house, arguing with me in the hallway, and leaving me to lock myself in my room had all been too small to matter.
“I’m not going,” I said.
His brows drew together at once.
“You’re still angry?” His voice sharpened with impatience. “Elara, we’re engaged. We’re not teenagers playing at romance. Do you really have to act like this?”
I said nothing.
I only looked at him.
And all at once, something became painfully clear.
When I argued, I was difficult.
When I stayed quiet, I was cold.
When I gave in, it was only what he expected.
When I resisted, I was unreasonable.
No matter what I did, I was always the one expected to bend first.
Maybe the problem had never been what I said.
Maybe the problem was that I loved him enough to keep excusing it.
He let out a breath, as if he were the one being generous.
“Fine,” he said. “Then I was wrong. Is that what you want to hear?”
I gave a small shake of my head.
“You did nothing wrong,” I said calmly. “And I’m not angry. So let’s stop talking about it.”
Then I walked past him and headed for the kitchen.
I set water to boil and reached for the coffee tin. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the espresso machine and the soft rain still dripping outside the windows. While I waited, I picked up my phone and opened Instagram without really thinking.
Odette had posted again.
This time, the photo showed her holding Cassian’s first racing trophy against her cheek, smiling softly at the camera as if she were cradling something precious. The gold caught the light from the bedside lamp behind her.
The caption read:
[Sleeping peacefully beside Cassian’s most treasured possession.]
It was not even the same account I had blocked the day before.
This was another one.
I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then clicked on the profile. We had never exchanged a message. I did not even remember when she had followed me, or when I had accepted it.
Slowly, I put the phone down on the counter.
There was no need to block her again.
I remembered that trophy very well.
Once, while cleaning his study, I had moved it slightly to wipe the dust from the shelf beneath. That was all. I had barely lifted it when Cassian walked in.
He had stopped in the doorway like I had committed some unforgivable offense.
“Who told you to touch that?” he had asked, his voice so sharp it stunned me.
I had apologized right away, explaining that I was only cleaning, but he had taken it from my hands with visible irritation and set it back himself, like even holding it was more than I should have done.
Back then, I blamed myself.
I thought I had crossed some line without realizing it.
Now I understood the truth.
The rule had never been that no one could touch it.
Only that I could not.
How pathetic.
I used to think love meant patience. Understanding. Endurance. I kept smoothing over every cut he gave me until I could pretend they no longer hurt.
But love and indifference were never the same thing.
I had simply been too blind to see it.
“Elara,” Cassian said from behind me.
I turned slightly. He was watching me now, his expression dark, clearly irritated by how calm I was.
“I know I shouldn’t have left like that,” he said. “But it was an emergency. It was life and death.”
Life and death.
The words sounded almost laughable now.
I picked up my phone again, opened Odette’s post, enlarged the photo, and turned the screen toward him.
“Saving someone in an emergency is one thing,” I said quietly. “Then what is this?”
His face changed, just slightly.
I held the phone steady and looked him right in the eye.
“Cassian,” I said, a faint edge of mockery slipping into my voice, “do you remember the day you yelled at me for touching your first racing trophy?”
I paused.
“Do you remember what you said to me then?”
