Chapter 5 Mission : Seduce His Uncle

The words hung in the air like smoke, bold, reckless, and impossible to take back.

Nia stared at Cassandra in open-mouthed disbelief, her eyes wide with shock. "That is not a good idea, Cassandra. You're already heartbroken. The last thing you need right now is to go out and collect more heartbreak like it's a damn hobby."

Cassandra, now standing, paced across the room with that restless energy bubbling just beneath her skin. Her hoodie slipped off one shoulder, exposing the graceful curve of her collarbone, but she didn't notice. She was too full of adrenaline, of purpose.

"This isn't about heartbreak," she snapped, her tone sharper than intended. She stopped pacing and turned to face Nia.

"This is about revenge. I'm not doing this to fall in love again. I'm doing this to ruin him. Evan lied to me for months. He made me feel like I was the only one, while all the while he was planning his escape. Like I was some summer fling he needed to keep secret. He gets to move on and look like the innocent one? Not on my life."

Cassandra strode over to the wardrobe, flinging the doors open with dramatic flair. Clothes spilled out, casual wear, work attire, dresses she rarely had the chance to wear. Her fingers combed through them with sudden intensity, yanking hangers to the side.

Nia watched her, her arms folded tightly across her chest. "So what, you're just going to play dress up and march to his uncle's mansion like, 'Hi there, I'm here to seduce you, hope you like silk and eyeliner'? Do you even have a plan, or is this just heartbreak dressed up in heels and lipstick?"

Cassandra froze, a sleek black dress dangling from her hand. She turned, slowly, her eyes wide.

"You're not... completely shutting me down?" she asked, almost incredulous.

Nia rolled her eyes and let out a long sigh. "Don't give me that look. I'd prefer you weren't plotting your own emotional demolition derby, but honestly? I'd rather see you doing something than sitting here drinking tea and crying over that stupid, cheating, rich boy."

Cassandra's lips twitched. "You're kind of terrible."

"I'm a realist. And you're dramatic." Nia leaned forward, her tone shifting. "If you're really going to go through with this insane plan, then fine. But let's do it properly. You want to seduce an arrogant billionaire? Then you need a strategy, not just lipstick and false hope."

MEANWHILE, AT DARIUS THORN'S ESTATE – THE SAME NIGHT

The storm outside was wild and relentless. The wind howled loudly, like a wild animal that had just been set free. Rain poured down hard, hitting the tall, curved windows of Blackthorn Manor with steady force. Each raindrop sounded like a soft warning, as if nature itself was trying to say something.

But inside the large, old house, everything was still. Strangely still.

Darius Thorn sat alone in his study, a large, quiet room filled with dark corners and old memories. The ceilings were high, making the space feel even more grand and empty. Paintings of serious-looking ancestors stared down from the walls, and the many bookshelves were crammed with old books, some of which held knowledge too dangerous for most people to understand. The room gave off a feeling of both strength and control just like Darius himself.

Beside him, on a small table, sat a glass of dark brown whiskey, aged and expensive. The glass shimmered slightly in the soft light coming from the fireplace. The fire crackled gently, and its warm orange glow reflected off the drink's surface. But Darius didn't reach for it.

He sat still, stiff and tense, in a large leather chair with high sides. His dark eyes stared into the fire, watching the flames move and dance along the stones of the fireplace. He didn't blink. He didn't speak.

The only sign of movement came from his hand, where his long fingers tapped once on the arm of the chair, an unconscious gesture, as if trying to keep something buried deep inside from rising to the surface.

Cassandra.

He whispered the name under his breath like a curse, the syllables a bitter taste on his tongue.

He should never have stopped the car.

He didn't even understand why he had. One minute, they were driving through the city's lower district, and the next... his instincts screamed at him to look. To stop. To see.

And there she was, collapsed on the pavement, unconscious, fragile.

Human.

His first instinct had been revulsion. Her scent had hit him like a punch to the gut, sweet, rich, earthy, mortal. Humans always smelled off to him, but her? She'd been a confusing blend of warmth and something ancient he couldn't quite place. It made his senses recoil.

He was supposed to keep driving. He always kept driving.

But something, some wild, inexplicable compulsion had made him open the door and step into the storm. That was mistake number one.

Mistake number two was letting his driver lift her limp body and place it in the backseat of his car.

He should've stopped it. He should have ordered her taken to a hospital or dumped on the nearest park bench and forgotten. That would've been the rational thing. The safe thing.

But he hadn't done the safe thing in years.

He should've followed instinct, his real instincts, the primal ones honed by centuries of blood, hierarchy, and war. Those instincts told him humans were beneath him. They were fragile, manipulative creatures, easily broken, always disappointing.

They had no place in his life. Especially women. The last time he trusted one, the cost was almost irreversible.

And yet, here he was. Haunted by the soft echo of a name he never should have learned.

"Cassandra," he murmured again, this time with a note of anger laced in confusion.

He leaned forward, finally grasping the glass and knocking it back in a single motion, the burn grounding him. But the momentary relief didn't last. His mind, his wolf, remained unsettled.

She had glared at him in the hall when she woke. Unafraid. Defiant.

He had expected tears. Fear. Gratitude, maybe. Instead, he got fire. She had challenged him with her eyes.

No one challenged Darius Thorn.

Certainly not some ordinary woman whose scent offended his very nature. She shouldn't have mattered. She shouldn't have even registered. But she had.

He ran a hand through his dark hair and let his head fall back against the chair, eyes closed. His muscles tightened at the memory of her voice, soft but edged in ice. She hadn't flinched when he insulted her. Hadn't begged. She stood her ground like someone who had nothing left to lose and somehow that had made her more dangerous.

He cursed under his breath in a dialect older than English, a guttural language of the wolves, long dead to the modern world.

"I should've left you on the street," he muttered.