Page 66 of Ruthless Vow
And she flinches from the real thing.
I want to prove her wrong.
Cazzo.
15
CASSIA
The study is quiet now.
We straighten our clothes. Return to opposite sides of the room like civilized people who didn’t just tear into each other against the bookshelves.
The leather couch holds no evidence. The scattered papers have been restacked. But the air between us has changed. Thicker. More dangerous.
I’m pretending to review quarterly summaries. Numbers blur before my eyes. My mind keeps circling back to how he looked at me when I shattered around him. The intensity in his focus, like he was memorizing me.
“You’re not reading those.”
His voice cuts through. I glance up. He’s in the armchair, whiskey untouched, watching me instead of his documents.
“Same page. Fourteen minutes.”
I set down the papers. No point pretending.
“What were you like before all this?” He leans forward, elbows on knees. “Before the arrangement. Before me.”
The question lands wrong. Personal in a way we’ve been avoiding.
“Boring, for the most part.” I keep my voice light. Deflection through humor.
“Exceptional at spreadsheets. Mediocre at small talk. The kind of person who gets seated at the kids’ table at weddings because no one knows where else to put her.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t let me off the hook.
“That’s what you did. I asked who you were.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear. Stall.
“I was the contingency plan.” The words come out before I can soften them. “Elena was the investment. I was the backup generator. Useful if everything went wrong. Otherwise, just furniture.”
“Your parents treated you that way?”
“My parents loved me.” I say it because it’s true. “They just didn’t see me. There’s a difference. Elena was loud, impossible to ignore. I learned early that the quieter I was, the smoother things ran. So I got quieter.”
He’s studying me with that intensity that used to unnerve me. Now it feels like being counted. Measured. Every number accounted for by someone who actually reads the spreadsheet.
“You had plans. Before all this.” It’s not a question. He’s been paying attention.
“A forensic firm in Chicago recruited me.” I allow myself a small smile. Bitter at the edges. “I had the offer letter for two weeks. Used to take it out at night and read it like a love letter.”
“What happened?”
“Elena was spiraling. Our mother was sick.” I shrug. One shoulder. Casual. Like it doesn’t still sting. “Someone had to stay.”
The silence stretches. He doesn’t fill it with platitudes. I appreciate that.
“And then she ran.” I smooth the edge of the paper on my lap, pressing the crease flat. “And Chicago became a letter I stopped reading.”
