Mira woke to sunlight spilling across the bed, soft and warm, catching in the pale curtains and dusting the room in gold. The light moved slowly, lazily, as if the morning itself had nowhere urgent to be.
For a brief moment, she reached instinctively to her side.
Empty.
Her fingers brushed cool sheets. No warmth. No weight. No familiar presence anchoring the space beside her. She stilled, hand hovering there a second too long before curling into the fabric. Slowly, she exhaled and pulled her hand back, as if the motion required conscious effort.
Of course.
Two days, she reminded herself. Just two days. Not abandonment. Not absence. Not anything dramatic. Just two days.
Still, the bed felt larger than it should have.
She sat up slowly, the sheets slipping down her waist, and pressed a palm to her stomach again—not because she felt anything new, not because something had changed, but because the habit had already begun to settle into her body. A quiet reflex. A grounding point.
"I'm fine," she murmured to the quiet room, testing the words aloud.
They sounded convincing enough.
The silence didn't argue with her.
She pushed her hair back, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and glanced around the room. Everything was pristine. Controlled. Untouched. Exactly how Cassian liked it. The thought made her smile faintly, something warm flickering beneath the surface.
And then the smile widened—sudden, impulsive, bright.
An idea sparked.
She reached for her phone.
Serrano Estate – Midmorning
"LIVIA."
The call barely rang twice.
"MIRA?" Livia's voice exploded through the speaker like fireworks. "ARE YOU ALIVE? Did you finally murder your husband, or has he done it first?"
Mira snorted, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Good morning to you too."
"Oh please," Livia scoffed. "If it were a good morning, you wouldn't be calling me before noon. Something's wrong. What is it? Emotional crisis? Rich-people boredom? Did he breathe wrong?"
"I just—" Mira hesitated, fingers tapping lightly against her thigh. Then she sighed. "I need you."
There was a pause.
A very deliberate one.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Livia said immediately. "I'm not even changing. Wear something cute. Or don't. I'll judge you either way."
The line went dead.
Mira stared at the phone for a second, then laughed softly, shaking her head. For the first time since Cassian had walked out the door, something in her chest loosened—like a knot finally giving way.
Livia arrived like chaos incarnate.
She didn't knock so much as announce herself, bursting into the penthouse with sunglasses still on, oversized bag slung over her shoulder, gum snapping loudly between her teeth.
"WOW," she said, spinning slowly in place. "This place screams emotionally unavailable billionaire. Cold marble. Minimal art. No soul. Ten out of ten."
Mira laughed, genuine and unrestrained. "You're impossible."
"And you," Livia shot back instantly, lowering her sunglasses to peer at her, "are glowing. Don't lie to me. Something is going on."
"Nothing," Mira said too quickly.
"Oh, that's my favorite lie." Livia dropped onto the couch, kicked off her shoes, then paused, squinting. "Wait. Nothing-nothing? Or he's-gone-and-you're-alone nothing?"
Mira blinked. "How did you—"
"You texted me at nine in the morning instead of sleeping like a normal woman," Livia cut in. "Dead giveaway. Plus, you sound… twitchy."
Mira groaned. "You're insufferable."
"And yet," Livia grinned, standing and grabbing her hands, "you called me. Which means: intervention time."
Within minutes, the penthouse no longer felt so quiet.
Livia raided the kitchen like a raccoon with opinions.
"WHY does this man have almond milk?"
She squinted at the shelves. "Who hurt him?"
She found three different salts and gasped. "Emotionally damaged. Confirmed."
"We're baking," she declared.
"A cake?" Mira asked weakly.
"Yes. For emotional stability."
"That's not a thing."
"It is now," Livia replied firmly.
Flour dusted the counter. Music blasted too loud. Livia danced terribly on purpose, hips flailing, while Mira laughed so hard her sides ached.
"You know," Livia said casually, cracking eggs with unnecessary violence, "if I were married to a man like yours, I'd chain him to the bed."
Mira nearly dropped the whisk. "Livia!"
"What? Tall. Broody. Rich. Looks like he doesn't sleep. That's a public service issue."
"You're ridiculous."
"And you're smiling," Livia shot back. "Which means it's working."
They took photos—too many. Mira laughing mid-sentence. Flour on her cheek. Hair loose and wild. Alive.
"This one," Livia said, holding up her phone, "is illegal. If men saw this, civilization would collapse."
Mira laughed, wiping her face.
She didn't notice her phone vibrating on the counter.
Or the message lighting up the screen.
(Cassian)
Did you sleep well?
Have you eaten?
What are you doing right now?
No response.
Cassian stared at the screen longer than necessary before locking it.
She doesn't have to answer, he told himself.
She owes me nothing.
The thought didn't sit right.
He straightened his jacket and walked into the meeting room, posture flawless, expression unreadable. The meeting dragged—numbers, projections, strategies. He responded when spoken to, precise and sharp, but his focus slipped in small, irritating ways.
Her laughter surfaced uninvited.
The way she'd looked at him over a spoon of ice cream.
The curve of her lips when she teased him back.
Someone placed files on his desk.
Cassian didn't look up.
As the man turned to leave, another voice muttered—too careless.
"Can you blame him for looking miserable?"
A low chuckle followed. "If I had a wife like that, I'd never leave the bed."
Another voice joined in. "Honestly? She's wasted on meetings."
Cassian's jaw clenched.
"Beautiful, soft-spoken," the man continued. "I'd keep her occupied day and night."
Silence.
Cassian looked up slowly.
"You're dismissed," he said calmly.
The man froze. "Sir?"
"Effective immediately."
The room went dead quiet.
"And," Cassian added mildly as he stood, "have security escort you out."
He didn't look back.
AT EVENING
That evening, in his private residence, Cassian sat alone at the table, dinner untouched.
He ate with discipline—slow, controlled, deliberate.
And yet—
Her face rose unbidden.
Her laughter.
The memory of her tongue catching, licking the ice cream slow and unaware.
His throat tightened. He was getting hard just thinking about her.
Enough.
He set the fork down, breathed once, deeply, then resumed eating.
Control was not optional.
Not now.
Not ever.
And yet, as he swallowed, the silence pressed in again—heavy, relentless, impossible to escape