Chapter 3 The Closet Door

Cassia didn't mean to open it.

She'd wandered upstairs to clear her head, to get dressed, to not think about the way Dorian's voice still pulsed behind her ears. The plate of food had gone cold. Her appetite hadn't returned.

Katherine's bedroom door was closed.

Of course it was.

It had stayed shut during the funeral. Locked, maybe. Or maybe no one had dared to touch it.

Cassia had walked past it three times already. But this time, her hand moved without asking.

The knob turned easily. No resistance.

The air inside was colder than the hallway. No light on. Curtains drawn. And yet, her sister's scent still lingered-vanilla, sandalwood, and whatever icy perfume she'd favored in winter.

The bed was made perfectly. Nothing out of place.

Cassia stepped inside like she was trespassing.

And maybe she was.

Her fingertips grazed the edge of the dresser. She wasn't looking for anything. Not really. But her body moved anyway, like it remembered a rhythm that had nothing to do with logic.

The closet door was cracked open.

Just slightly.

She stared at it. The last time she'd seen inside that closet, she'd been sixteen. Kat had caught her playing dress-up, trying on heels she could barely stand in. Cassia still remembered the sting of her sister's voice-"You don't touch what isn't yours."

She reached for the handle now and opened it fully.

Clothes hung like ghosts. Still color-coded. Still expensive. Black, ivory, scarlet. Dresses Kat had worn to galas, charity luncheons, seductions.

Cassia ran her hand along the row.

And then she saw it.

Tucked at the back. Covered in plastic.

A dress. Pale blue. Delicate.

Not Kat's size. Too narrow in the waist. Too soft.

It looked like something Cassia herself might wear. Or once had. It didn't belong here. She stepped closer, fingers brushing the hanger. There was a tag on it.

Her name.

Pinned.

Cassia stared.

Behind her, a floorboard creaked.

She turned fast.

Dorian stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other holding a mug.

"I didn't mean to-" she began.

He didn't interrupt. He didn't look angry.

His eyes traveled over the dress, then to her face.

"I kept it," he said simply.

She swallowed. "Why?"

"You left it. A long time ago."

"In college," she whispered.

"You were going to wear it to that summer thing. Your sister didn't tell you, but... she gave it away. Said it was 'too soft' for a Vellani woman."

Cassia let her fingers drop.

"I found it in a donation box in the garage," he added. "Years ago."

She looked at him, mouth dry.

"You kept it?"

Dorian stepped inside now, his voice lower. "She never knew."

There was silence between them.

The kind that didn't beg to be filled. The kind that pulsed.

He moved closer.

She didn't move away.

His hand reached out, not to her, but to the fabric. He touched the shoulder of the dress, slow and reverent.

"It smelled like you," he said. "Back then."

Cassia's chest ached.

"Do you still want it?" he asked.

The question held something beneath it. Something deeper.

"Yes," she said. Then added, "I think I always did."

He nodded once.

And just before he turned to leave, he paused.

"I meant what I said, Cassia. About wanting to take care of you."

She didn't respond.

Couldn't.

Her throat was too tight.

When he was gone, she stared at the dress a while longer. Her name still pinned to the tag.

A dress her sister tried to erase.

And a man who never let it go.