Chapter 2 2

Cassandra lay in the bed for a long time, her fingers brushing the spot on the duvet where Kade had knelt. The fabric still held the ghost of his body heat. It was a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in her bones since the warehouse.

She needed to assess her physical state. Slowly, painstakingly, she dragged her legs to the edge of the bed. She placed her feet on the floor. With a grunt of effort, she pushed herself up. Her knees trembled violently, threatening to buckle. She gritted her teeth, forcing her muscles to hold. She took one step, then another, using the wall for support as she made her way to the en-suite bathroom.

The lighting was harsh, clinical. She gripped the edges of the marble sink, her knuckles white, leaning her entire weight on the porcelain to keep from collapsing. She examined her reflection. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her eyes were wide, the pupils blown. On the side of her neck, there was a faint red mark-a friction burn from where Kade's security team had restrained her at the airfield.

She turned on the faucet. The water ran ice cold. She splashed it onto her face, gasping as the shock forced her heart rate to stabilize. She needed to think. She needed to organize the chaotic timeline in her head.

Five years. She had five years of knowledge. She knew stock market crashes, political scandals, and the rise of technology that didn't exist yet. But more importantly, she knew the snakes in the grass.

Hearing a noise in the bedroom, she quickly shuffled back, her movements clumsy and desperate. She practically fell back onto the mattress, pulling the duvet up just as the heavy silence of the house seemed to press against the door.

She reached under the thick Persian rug by the nightstand. Her fingers brushed against cool metal. Her phone. Kade had confiscated it, but in his rage, he must have tossed it back, or perhaps he wanted her to see the messages.

She pressed the power button. The screen illuminated the dark room.

Forty-two unread messages. All from Dillon.

Cassie, baby, are you okay?

He's a monster. Did he hurt you?

I had to leave, his men had guns. I couldn't risk it.

I'm talking to a lawyer. We'll get you out.

I love you. Don't let him touch you.

A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. Bile rose in her throat. The words, which she once would have read with teary eyes and a fluttering heart, now looked like vomit on the screen. I couldn't risk it. That was the truth. The rest was manipulation.

Her thumb hovered over the delete button.

No.

She took a screenshot. Then another. She archived the chat, hiding it in a secure folder. This wasn't trash; it was ammunition.

A noise from the hallway made her freeze. Heavy footsteps.

She scrambled back against the pillows, her body exhausted, the adrenaline crash hitting her hard. She was physically weak, her muscles unconditioned for the stress. She closed her eyes, feigning sleep, but her mind was a whirlwind.

Sleep claimed her against her will.

It wasn't a peaceful sleep. She was back in the warehouse. The needle pricked her skin. Dillon was laughing. But then the scene shifted. It was Kade, lying in a pool of blood, his chest torn open, looking at her with dying eyes. "Why didn't you stay?" he rasped.

"No..." Cassandra whimpered in her sleep, tossing her head. "Dillon... don't..."

The bedroom door clicked open.

Kade hadn't left the penthouse. He had been pacing the hallway, a glass of scotch in his hand, unable to settle the beast in his chest. He heard the whimper.

He walked into the room, silent as a ghost. He stood by the bed, looking down at his wife. She was sweating, her face twisted in distress.

Then he heard it. The name.

"Dillon... no..."

The glass in Kade's hand threatened to shatter. The sound of that name, coming from her lips while she lay in his bed, under his roof, triggered a violent snap in his psyche. The PTSD from his time in the sandbox-the betrayal of allies, the loss of men-merged with the jealousy of a husband scorned.

He didn't think. He reacted.

Kade moved. His hand shot out, not to strike, but to seize control. He gripped her shoulder hard, his fingers digging into the delicate flesh through the silk pajamas. He shook her, desperate to wake her, desperate to stop the name from polluting the air.

"Wake up," he growled, his voice thick with raw emotion.

Cassandra's eyes flew open. She was met with darkness and the terrifying pressure on her shoulder. Above her, Kade's face was a mask of torture. His eyes were wild, haunted.

"Kade..." she choked out, her hands flying up to grip his wrist.

The sound of her voice, calling him, not Dillon, pierced the fog.

Kade blinked. The red haze receded. He looked at his hand, gripping her like a vice. He looked at her eyes-fearful, yes, but also... recognizing.

He released her as if she were made of fire. He stumbled back, his hip hitting the heavy oak dresser with a thud. He looked at his own hand with revulsion, his chest heaving.

"Don't," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together. "Don't ever speak his name in this room. If you do, I will cut out his tongue and mail it to you."

Cassandra sat up, coughing, rubbing her shoulder. She looked at him, and her heart broke. Not for herself, but for him. She knew this wasn't just anger. It was trauma. She had done this to him. Her betrayal had weaponized his PTSD.

"It wasn't... I wasn't asking for him," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Kade, listen to me."

"Shut up," he snarled, turning his back on her. He couldn't look at her. If he looked at her, he would crumble. "From tomorrow, you are cut off. No phone. No internet. No leaving the building. You want to be a prisoner? Fine. I'll be the warden."

He walked to the door. This time, when he left, the sound of the electronic lock engaging was distinct. Click. Whir. Thud.

She was locked in.

Cassandra touched her shoulder. It would bruise. She didn't cry. She sat there in the dark, listening to the silence of the penthouse.

"Okay," she whispered. "Prison rules."

She reached for the bedside table and pressed the service button. It was a direct line to the household staff.

"Yes, Mrs. Mullen?" The voice of Alfred, the butler, was dry and devoid of warmth. He disliked her. Everyone on Kade's payroll disliked her.

"Alfred," Cassandra said, her voice changing. Gone was the whimper. In its place was a cool, detached tone, the voice of a woman who knew exactly how much leverage she had left. "I require clothing. A dress. Black. High collar. Cashmere."

"Sir has instructed that you are not to leave the room, Madam."

"I understand the instructions, Alfred," she said, her voice dropping a fraction, smoothing over the steel beneath. "But unless Kade prefers to have his security team drag a naked woman through the halls when he inevitably summons me, I suggest you bring the dress. It's about dignity, Alfred. Mine, and his."

There was a long pause on the other end. The threat was subtle, wrapped in logic, attacking Kade's pride, not his rules.

"I will bring it up shortly, Madam."

Cassandra released the button. She leaned back against the headboard, her eyes adjusting to the dark.

Step one: Armor up.

Step two: Break out.