I stood looking out onto the lawn considerably longer than her car was gone.

The same gravel. The same trees. Same echo of her laughter somewhere deep within the walls of this house.

I'd vowed to feel nothing. That the past was in a box, buried and sealed, and hidden beneath a thick layer of time. But the moment Belle Moreno stepped into this house — all stiff attitude and chilly professionalism — I felt it disintegrate.

And damn me, it still burned.

She didn't look like I recalled. She was… sharper. Calmer. Like the world had tried to swallow her whole and she'd bitten back.

But her voice? Her eyes?

They were the same.

And worse — she addressed me as if I was just another client. As if we hadn't etched our names on the magnolia tree behind the stables. As if she hadn't torn out my fucking heart and spat on it with that lie.

I never loved you. I just used you.

The memory sliced through my head like broken glass. I clenched my teeth until the muscle in my temple flinched.

She performed well, I'll give her credit. Didn't even flicker during the walkthrough. But I saw it. That crack in her mask when I made it plain that this was no memory lane.

She remembered. Every goddamn inch.

A knock at the door brought me back to the here and now.

He dropped into the chair opposite mine. “So… That’s Belle.”

“She’s the designer, I told him”

“And your ex.”

“She’s a professional.”

“And the girl who ripped your soul out four years ago,” he said pointedly.

I gave him a pointed glare.

He raised an eyebrow. "Listen, man, I don't spy. You know that. But I'd be a lousy COO if I didn't say this: you're not thinking straight."

"I'm thinking quite clearly," I said. "She's a professional. Her firm is capable and I want the estate finished. She'll get the job done."

"Doesn't it occur to you that working day in and day out with her is going to mess with your head?"

"My head is fine."

He exhaled. "And your heart?

"That died the day she walked away."

I stood up, walking towards the glass case in the corner. I drank little these days, but I poured two fingers of bourbon and downed it in one swallow.

Devon stood up, adjusting his cuffs. "Your mother phoned again. She wants to schedule tea," he started. "She also brought up the inheritance clause."

I turned around slowly. "What clause?"

Devon hesitated. "You don't know?"

I glared. "Devon."

He sighed. “Apparently, Savannah and your father added a condition before he passed. Something about public image. Clean legacy. If you’re not married by the time the IPO finalizes…”

“Finish the sentence.”

“You forfeit your executive chair.”

A beat passed. Then another.

I laughed once, dry and hollow. “Of course she didn’t tell me.”

Devon grimaced. "Sorry, man. I would've piped up sooner if I knew it was real. She had the lawyers slip it into the original will while it was going through probate. It holds up."

"So I marry or I lose all that I rebuilt?" It was not a question but it came out that way.

"Technically, yes."

"And she didn't consider mentioning this earlier than now?"

"Timing," Devon muttered. "Always her go-to tool.".

I consumed the last of the bourbon. The glass rang too loudly on the table when I set it down.

"She actually believes she can control me into some PR-issued marriage."

Devon hesitated again. "She already has a list of names."

"Of course she does."

He met my gaze directly. "But maybe she doesn't have to."

I scowled at him.

He shrugged. "Belle's back. Conveniently. Coincidentally. And no matter what you say, she's the only one who ever really succeeded in getting to you."

I laughed. "You're want me to marry Belle Moreno?"

"I think," he said slowly, "that if you're smart — and you always are — you'll play the situation your way."

My jaw tightened.

"I want control," I said.

"Then take it."

He left afterward, and I was alone with blood ringing in my ears.

The thought crept up on me.

Sharp and sinister.

It was perfect.

A marriage.

Not out of love or reconciliation. But a contract. Clean and controlled.

She ruined me once. But maybe this time, I could return the favor and absolutely destroy her.

One year.

One lie.

One hell of a price.

BELLE

I did not sleep that night.

Leo had curled into my bed after a nightmare and curled around me as if he were still a baby. And when I looked at him — really looked — I could see the striking resemblance he had with Cassian. The shape of his lashes across the tops of his cheeks. The same cheekbones. The same unique green eyes.

He was becoming Cassian.

And I was running out of time.

By morning, I was a wreck. Selena made me coffee and didn't ask questions, but she watched me with hawk-like intensity the entire ride to the studio. And Leo, half-asleep eyes, muttered the same question he'd asked three times this week.

"Mommy? Why don't I have a daddy?"

I kissed his forehead and gave him the same response I always do. "Because we're enough, baby."

But I didn’t believe it anymore.

Not after standing ten feet from the man whose DNA made up half of my son.

My email box had exploded by midafternoon.

Supplier holdups. Budget notifications. Six inquiries from the Thornwell estate for floor-plan changes. It drove me crazy but I buried myself in work, pretending every new email didn’t feel like another crack in my resolve.

So when the call came, I answered without hesitation.

"Hello?" I spoke into the receiver.

"Belle."

My stomach dropped.

Cassian's voice was a razor—polished, controlled, with an edge sharp enough to bleed.

"I need you at the estate. It is urgent."

I gripped the phone tighter. "About the project?"

"Yes."

I hesitated. "Cassian—"

"I will have a car pick you up from your studio in twenty minutes."

The line went dead.

The car arrived and some minutes later, I was once again at the Thornwell mansion.

The Thornwell study was still the same — all somber woods and bitter light.

Cassian stood behind the desk again, but he didn't waste any time on small talk this time.

"Sit."

I didn't.

"You said it was urgent," I replied, attempting to keep my tone even. "So get on with it."

He stared at me as if I was a set of blueprints he was attempting to decipher. "You need money."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Your company is in the tank. Moreno & Delgado's most recent two contracts were under-budgeted and overextended. You’re late on two supplier payments and your accounts receivable aren't cleared."

Heat crept up my neck. "Did you… look into me?"

"Of course I did."

I took a step forward. "You son of a—"

"I'm offering you a way out," he cut me off, stepping forward.

He spoke so calmly, so matter-of-fact, as if we were haggling over color swatches.

"Marry me."

I stood frozen.

"Excuse me?