The next day, it rained. Not the sweet, romantic kind, but the kind that hit windows like accusations.

Sera sat by herself in the kitchen of the penthouse, looking at a bowl of fruit that hadn't been touched. There was no peace in the silence. It was like surgery.

Since the press conference, she had hardly seen Cassian. No good night. No check-in. His assistant only sent him one message: “Well played. Get ready for lunch at the Plaza.”

She had ignored it.

She was now wearing a robe, her hair was messy, and she didn't want to eat. It had only been two days since she officially became a Wolfe, but she already felt like she was disappearing.

She took her phone out. No texting. No calls that were missed. There are only a few dozen articles that break down every look she gave at the conference.

Queen Calloway or Captive?

The Ice Prince's Bride: Is She Real or Just a Rebound?

She tossed the phone away.

This marriage wasn't real, but the shame was.

The sound of the front door opening scared her. She raised her head. Cassian came in, dry even though it was stormy outside.

He put down his umbrella and said, “You didn't show.”

“I wasn't hungry.”

“Food wasn't the point of lunch.”

“Of course not.”

He sighed and went into the kitchen. “You're now a part of a story. You can't just go away.”

“I didn't know disappearing was an option,” she said, biting her nail. “That's all I've been doing since you bought me.”

He slowly turned. “No one bought you. You made a deal.”

“I promised to keep my family safe. Don't dress up for your brand.”

His jaw got tight. “I do everything for the brand. That includes keeping you safe from what would happen if the world knew the truth.”

“And what truth is that?” she shot back. “That the Wolfe heir married a ruined heiress to ruin her again?”

There was a beat.

Then, out of the blue, he said, “You're not ruined.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You think that being broken makes you weak. No, it doesn't. It makes you useful.”

She stood up, her anger rising. “You're a machine.”

“No,” he said in a low voice. “Machines don't bleed. And I have.”

She turned her head. It felt like the room was smaller.

“I'll be ready for dinner,” she finally said. “Wherever you need me.”

He said as he left, “You don't have to be ready for me. Be ready for them.”

They ate at Le Ciel that night, a restaurant on the roof with velvet booths and a view that looked like it was made by a computer.

Cassian talked to investors while Sera did her job, smiling, nodding, and making smart comments.

One of the women leaned over the table. “You're doing such a great job with all of this, Sera. You almost make scandal look cool.”

Sera's smile was sharp. “Well, we Calloways always knew how to dress up chaos.”

They laughed, but Cassian's eyes went to her. “Do you agree?” Warning? She didn't know.

She felt like glass by the time dessert came: smooth on the outside but breaking on the inside.

While in the car, she finally asked, “Was tonight a test?”

Cassian didn't look at her. “Everything is.”

Two nights later, she walked around the penthouse and found the room that was locked.

The door was black, which was different from the others. The handle is gold. No keypad. No key.

It made her feel uneasy.

The next day, she asked the maid, “What is in that room at the end of the hall?”

The woman stopped. “That room is not for you.”

“Whose privacy?” Sera queried.

The woman bent down a little. “Mr. Wolfe's.”

Yes, of course.

Cassian got home late that night. She stayed.

He poured himself some whisky, and she asked, “What's behind the black door?”

He didn't say anything.

“You told me to be ready for anything. That includes secret things.”

He drank the whisky. “It's not a secret. It’s a memory.”

She frowned. “That’s cryptic.”

“I don’t owe you explanations.”

“No,” she said. “But if you want me to keep playing the role, I deserve context.”

He looked at her for a long time.

Finally, he said, “My mother’s studio.”

Sera blinked, “Your mum was an artist?”

He said, “She was a hurricane. She painted everything she couldn't say in that room.”

“And now?”

“She's gone.”

She thought about it. “I'm sorry.”

He didn't shake his head. Did not blink. He just filled his glass again.

He said softly, “She died in that room. The day after, my dad said he would sell everything. Her job. The name of her. Her fire.”

Sera's voice got softer. “So you put it away?”

“No,” he said. “I kept it whole. Because she was the only one who didn't use her love to get what she wanted.”

There was a long silence between them.

Cassian didn't seem cold at that moment. He looked like he was being followed.

And for the first time, Sera didn't see a machine.

She saw a man whose blood was ice and whose past was fire.

And something inside her moved.

This house might not have just been a cage.

It could have been a tomb.

And maybe, just maybe, there were other ghosts in there with her.

The rain had stopped by the next morning. It seemed like something had been scrubbed from the sky, making the air feel cleaner.

When Sera walked into the kitchen, there was only one note on the counter:

“11 o'clock appointment. Lunch for charity at 2. Tonight at 7, there will be an art gala. Cassian will be there.”

She blinked. Gala of art.

Since her father was sentenced, she hadn't been to a gallery. Her passion had also turned into a ghost.

But tonight, she would have to put on her old skin. Act like she’s still the Calloway girl who knew every brushstroke and could tell who painted sadness by how they did it.

She got dressed without saying a word, putting on the navy silk gown that had been laid out for her. It had open shoulders and a fitted waist. The dress is meant to get attention, but not questions.

Cassian met her by the car.

He said, “You look like regret.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That's poetic.”

“It's also useful.”

They rode to the gala in silence, but as soon as they stepped onto the red carpet, they held hands.

They were magnetic to the rest of the world.

But they were mirrors for each other, showing what they couldn't say.

Inside, champagne flowed and art sparkled in the lights.

Sera moved through the crowd as if she were on autopilot, smiling at curators and critics and nodding at collectors. She saw a painting that was abstract and had violent brushwork, but it was definitely alive.

Cassian came with her. “You like it?”

“It's ugly,” she said.

“But true.”

She looked at him. “Do you like that? Ugly honesty!”

He didn't say anything.

Later that night, a man she recognised from an earlier exhibit came up to her.

“Calloway. I see you still have an eye for the disruptive.”

“I never lost it,” she said.

Cassian stood next to her and watched. Measured.

The man gave her a card. “Next season, I'm putting together a private collection. I'd like to know what you think.”

Cassian got the card before she did.

He said, “We'll be in touch,” in a calm voice.

The man bowed and then left.

Sera looked at Cassian. “That was rude.”

“That was needed,” replied Cassian.

“You can't make me quiet.”

“I just gave you more time. That guy doesn't want art; he wants scandal.”

She blinked. “And what do you want?”

He leaned in and spoke quietly. “To make it through this. Even if it means you have to hate me to do it.”

And for the first time, she didn't know what to say.

For one brief moment, Cassian Wolfe sounded like someone who cared, even though he was under frost and fire.