Chapter Three

Isla

The headlines found me before the sunlight did.

I hadn’t even opened the blinds when my phone lit up like a battlefield—buzz after buzz, relentless, slicing through the quiet of my apartment.

At first, I ignored it. My body was too heavy, too slow. My head throbbed from the champagne, from the reckless kiss, from the weight of the night that had already begun to reshape my future.

But curiosity is a cruel thing.

I reached for the phone.

The first headline nearly made me choke.

DISGRACED HEIRESS MAKES HER MOVE ON VALTORE PATRIARCH.

I scrolled further.

> Isla Marquez: From Prison to Power Grab?

Ronan Mercer’s ex-fiancée clings to the father for relevance.

Kiss of Vengeance or Kiss of Desperation?

Every outlet had their claws in me. Every photo was the same—my face angled up toward Cassian’s, lips parted, his hand gripping the back of my neck. The kiss that had been reckless, raw, a mistake born of too much champagne and too much fury… now frozen forever.

They’d edited the images to gleam like sin. His mouth hard, mine desperate. They’d captured it to look like hunger, like ruin.

I threw the phone onto the bed, chest heaving. But silence was worse, so I snatched it back up and kept scrolling, as if punishing myself.

By the tenth headline, my chest felt carved hollow. By the twentieth, my hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the phone.

And still, I scrolled. Because I couldn’t look away.

Ronan would be laughing.

I could hear it already—his cruel, boyish laugh. The one that used to make my chest flutter, now making bile rise in my throat. He would show his friends, pour drinks over it, savor my humiliation like a delicacy.

My throat tightened. Images flashed without permission: the first time Ronan brought me to a gala, his arm looped through mine, pride gleaming in his smile as if I were some crown jewel. The way I believed him when he whispered “Forever, Isla. It’s always going to be you.”

And then the memory shattered—replaced by the one that ruined me.

The night I found the forged documents, the bank accounts, the trail of embezzled money written in my name. His hand on my arm, fingers digging in too tight. His voice, dripping venom disguised as sorrow.

“You were careless. They’ll never believe you. But they’ll believe me.”

That was the moment I learned how skilled Ronan was at crafting narratives. How easy it was for him to make me the villain.

And now, once again, I was the headline.

My heart pounded so hard I pressed my palms to my temples. I couldn’t let him win. Not again.

A knock interrupted the spiral. Three sharp raps against the door. Too steady. Too purposeful. Not a neighbor. Not a delivery.

I froze.

The knock came again, louder this time.

I opened the door.

A man in a black suit stood there, tall, impassive. His eyes slid over me once, professional but cold. “Ms. Marquez,” he said, his tone clipped, rehearsed. “Mr. Valtore requests your presence.”

My stomach clenched.

Of course he does.

I wanted to slam the door. I wanted to scream. But instead, I grabbed my coat, slid into my heels, and followed him. Because some part of me already knew: ignoring Cassian Valtore was impossible.

---

His office wasn’t just an office. It was a throne room.

Floor-to-ceiling glass walls stretched high above the city, its skyline glittering like a kingdom made of fire and glass. The desk—sharp-edged, black as night—looked less like furniture and more like an altar.

Cassian stood behind it, tall, severe, hands clasped loosely at his back. Every inch of him was control carved into flesh.

“You’ve seen the news.” His voice didn’t ask. It declared.

A harsh laugh escaped me, brittle, splintering. “Seen it? I’m living it.”

His eyes moved over me—cool, assessing, like I was both problem and solution. “And?”

“And?” My voice cracked into anger before I could stop it. “And I’m branded desperate, pathetic—exactly what you said would happen.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. “Yes. Until I changed the story.”

I blinked. “What?”

He slid a folded paper across the desk.

I snatched it up, hands trembling.

The headline hit like a blow.

Cassian Valtore Breaks Silence: “Isla Marquez Is Under My Protection.”

Below it was a statement—measured, deliberate. Cassian claiming I had his backing. That I was not some scandal clinging to relevance but a woman whose honor he intended to defend.

The words were simple. But the subtext was fire. He wasn’t defending me. He was claiming me.

My pulse stumbled. “You—”

“I moved quickly.” His voice was low, unshaken. “Before Ronan could. Before the wolves could devour you.”

I could barely breathe. Rage and disbelief warred inside me. “You had no right.”

His jaw shifted, just slightly. “I had every right. You kissed me. In public. You invited the war. Now I control the battlefield.”

I hated him for that calmness, that certainty. For the way his words coiled around truth I couldn’t deny.

“You think I owe you for this?” My nails bit into my palms, grounding me in fury.

“No.” His gaze locked onto mine, sharp as steel. “I think you need me for this.”

The silence stretched, taut, dangerous.

I should have laughed in his face. Should have walked out. Instead, my throat closed, the words tangling useless.

Because somewhere deep down, beneath the fury, the shame, the ache—I knew he was right.

Cassian moved then, stepping around the desk. The air shifted with him, heavy, deliberate. He stopped only a breath away, close enough that I had to tilt my chin to meet his eyes.

“Marry me.”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. They landed between us like a detonation.

I swallowed hard, my heartbeat a drum. “What?”

“Marry me,” he repeated, voice velvet and steel. “And you won’t just survive this. You’ll own it. Together.”

That word—together—unraveled me more than I wanted.

I forced my chin higher, masking the quake in my chest. “And if I refuse?”

His mouth curved—not into warmth, not even amusement, but something colder. Smarter. “Then Ronan wins.”

---

I didn’t remember leaving. One minute I was locked in his gaze, the next I was back in the hallway, the door closing behind me like a final note.

I should have been shaking with fury. I should have been plotting how to burn him, too. Instead, my hands trembled for a different reason.

Because Cassian Valtore didn’t just see my rage—he wanted to weaponize it.

And God help me… I wanted to let him.