Amara’s POV

Cassian Hale worked a room like he’d been born in one.

The donor dinner was hosted in an exclusive rooftop ballroom. Every nook and cranny was gold trimmed and had tables decorated with overpriced champagne.

Cassian stood near the center, shaking hands, laughing softly at jokes that weren’t funny. The aim was to look perfect. But he was too perfect, too smooth, too scripted.

I watched from a distance, flanked by campaign staffers and PR advisors, pretending to be engaged in the conversation. But my focus stayed on him.

Cassian wasn’t charming. He was deliberate. Every gesture was practiced, every compliment he weighed. He didn’t just speak—it was like he performed and the terrifying part was how easily it worked.

But I knew better. I’d seen the man behind the mask. Or maybe I’d only thought I had.

“I’ve never done this before.”

I had whispered into his ears. I remember how he didn’t laugh, didn’t tease. Instead, he cupped my face like I was sacred, like I was something he’d never been allowed to hold before.

We were in a room after the dinner, half-drunk off bad punch and too much eye contact. I wondered why I agreed to follow but when he kissed me, I didn't need the answers anymore. His hands trailed my waist slowly, like he was memorizing every inch. I wasn’t just touched, I was studied, my body worshiped like a goddess.

“You’re precious. Never forget that.” he had said into my neck.

I remember how he looked at me when he peeled off my dress, inch by inch, eyes locked on mine like he was daring me to disappear first. I remember the way his mouth moved down my body, patient, hungry, but he didn't plan on rushing his meal.

It wasn’t just sex. He made love to me like I was his. Like he meant every slow thrust, every groan and compliment. He told me I was beautiful. That I made him feel real and I….god help me….I believed him.

I remember falling asleep curled into his chest, his breath steady against my shoulder. I remember thinking, Maybe he’ll ask for my number. Maybe this won’t just be a memory. I woke up alone. No number. No note.

“You’re glaring,” came a voice at my side.

I turned. One of the interns, glasses slipping down her nose. “Sorry?”

“You’re staring at Cassian like you want to throw him off the balcony.”

I smiled. “Just thinking.”

“About pushing him or kissing him?”

I didn’t answer. She blushed and scampered off.

I stepped away from the crowd, needing air, and found myself near a row of tall potted palms lining the edge of the room. That’s when I heard her voice.

“I’m not interested in being his soulmate. I’m his strategy.” Isobel Marchand. She was standing there, speaking to two reporters in tailored suits.

They laughed politely, but she went on.

“He’s got the face. The bloodline. I’ve got the polish. I do the clean-up, he does the charming. That’s the deal. Don’t print that, obviously.” She winked, sipping from her glass.

Charming.

It made me sick.

I turned away before they could see me and walked toward the bar, only to stop short when I nearly collided into Cassian himself.

“Leaving already?” he asked, casually sipping from a lowball glass.

“Didn’t realize I was required to stay and smile for your donors.”

His eyes sparkled. “You don’t smile for anyone. It’s part of your appeal.”

“You’re watching me now?”

“Hard not to. You walk like you don’t care who’s watching.”

“I don’t.”

He leaned in slightly. “Except when it’s me.”

I laughed dryly and cut it off quick. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Hale. I’ve survived men with smoother lines.”

He tilted his head, studying me. “Why do I get the feeling you hate me and I don’t know why?”

I took a long sip of water. “Because you don’t know me at all.”

“But I want to.”

“Try again when you’re not wearing a campaign.”

Before he could answer, his aide appeared and whispered something in his ear.

Cassian sighed, handed off his drink, and gestured for me to follow. “Come with me. It's time to go.”

I followed, against my better judgment.

The SUV was sleek, cold, and quiet once the doors shut.

He didn’t speak right away, just loosened his tie and stared out the window.

“You don’t trust me,” he said finally.

I kept my gaze on the road. “I don’t need to.”

“But you know me.”

Testing my patience here, but I was ready for him. “Once,” I whispered. “A long time ago.”

He turned to face me, eyes narrowed. “Have we met before?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I should tell him right now to stop lying. I should just say, you lied to me. You slept with me. You left me pregnant and alone and now you claim you don't even recognize my face.

But the words wouldn’t form. My throat locked. My pride wouldn't let me. .

So instead, I looked at him and said, “Does it matter?”

He didn’t press. Just stared at me, quietly, until the car pulled up to my apartment.

I opened the door.

“Goodnight, Miss Bishop.”

I paused before stepping out. “It’s Amara.”

His eyes held a little bit of shock, but he brushed off quickly and smiled.

“Goodnight, Amara.”

I climbed the stairs slower than usual, quite sure he was watching me. When I stepped inside, the apartment was quiet. Eli was asleep, curled around his stuffed rocket, his chest rising and falling.

I sat beside him, brushing his curls gently, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

“You’re the only part of that night that was real,” I whispered.

I pulled the blanket up to his chin, sat back, and watched him sleep like he held my entire heart in his tiny hands.

And then I whispered into the dark…

“Hale, I can’t let you break us again.”