ChapterTwo
Cassie hadn't moved since Rosa left the blanket behind.
The sun had risen hours ago, brushing the garden in pale gold, but the chill never left her bones. Frost clung to the ivy like lace dipped in grief. It should have melted by now. But not everything yielded to light.
The stone bench beneath her was cold and unforgiving, the kind that seeped into your skin and stayed there. She sat curled, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes blank as she stared into the dying thorns of the once-manicured hedge maze.
Inside the manor, an old window groaned open.
Rosa—half-shadow, half-memory—slipped into the kitchen's view, airing out the scent of burnt toast and older secrets. Somewhere above, ancient pipes rattled, and a soft footstep crept down the back stairwell.
Then came Charlotte.
Barefoot. Wrapped in one of Cassie's old college hoodies. Pale and sleep-creased, her hair tumbling down her back like forgotten pages.
She stepped into the garden slowly, like the ground might collapse beneath her.
Without a word, she settled beside Cassie, close but not touching. Her eyes searched her sister's face, uncertain, already brimming with that quiet fear only the youngest siblings ever carried.
"Something's wrong," Charlotte said softly.
Cassie reached for her hand, fingers brushing, but didn't speak. The silence was thick—shared, familiar, almost sacred. She didn't need words. Charlotte already knew.
Then the world, as they knew it, shattered.
The sudden roar of the television broke the still morning. The sharp static of news coverage spilled from the open kitchen door like a scream down the hallway.
"Breaking news: Kensington Global is now under federal investigation…"
Charlotte's breath caught.
Cassie didn't even flinch.
She was already standing.
The living room was soaked in sterile sunlight, but nothing felt clean.
On the massive screen above the marble fireplace, Cassie's face stared back. Her graduation photo—taken the day she wore her navy gown and the family crest like armor. The university library stood proud behind her, a cruel contrast to the headline glowing beneath:
"THE FACE OF A LEGACY IN COLLAPSE."
Charlotte's hand flew to her mouth.
The anchor's voice dripped with polished malice. "Long hailed as American royalty, the Kensington family now faces a public reckoning. Federal audits reveal a tangled web of fraud, offshore laundering, and internal sabotage tied to Kensington Global's elite board."
The screen cut to Victoria Kensington, their mother, stepping out of a town car. Sunglasses, pearls, and power. Always the actress.
"A scandal in designer heels," the anchor added, with a knowing smile.
"They're saying our name like it's poison," Charlotte whispered.
Cassie stood motionless. "Because it is."
Victoria didn't knock. She never did.
She swept into the room like a storm bottled in silk—heels clicking, wine glass already in hand despite the hour, her dress a shade too bright for mourning.
"I should have known," she hissed, setting the glass down with a sharp clink that made the table jump. "He said it was handled. That smug, arrogant bastard promised it was under control."
In the corner, Arthur—ever the ghost—pressed two fingers to his temple and exhaled through his nose like he might actually vanish this time.
"You weren't here to stop this," Victoria spat, not even sparing Cassie a glance.
Cassie blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"You were supposed to be the future! The one with polish. With presence. You were our safety net, Cassandra."
"I left because it was burning," Cassie replied, voice low and even.
Victoria sneered. "And you think you're not covered in ash now?"
Cassie looked at her. Really looked. The woman in front of her wasn't a mother. She was a statue—painted, polished, hollow.
"I didn't run," Cassie said. "I just stopped pretending the fire didn't exist."
Victoria's hand trembled, but she didn't throw the glass. That would've been too human.
Arthur finally broke the silence.
"Enough."
One word. Small. Useless.
Cassie turned and walked out, not bothering to slam the door. The real explosion was waiting upstairs.
Charlotte lay curled in Cassie's childhood bed, hugging a pillow like a life raft.
Cassie sat beside her, fingers weaving gently through her sister's hair. The same way she had when they were little—back when Charlotte cried about monsters under the bed instead of real ones in the family ledger.
"Are we going to lose the house?" Charlotte asked, muffled into the pillow.
Cassie didn't sugarcoat it. "Maybe."
Charlotte's shoulders tensed. But she didn't cry. Not exactly. Her breaths came hard and slow, the kind that make your chest ache from trying to hold it together.
"Will we still be… Kensingtons?"
Cassie couldn't answer that.
Not because she didn't know.
But because the question felt like swallowing glass.
Charlotte still believed you could fix things by being kind.
Cassie had already learned—kindness was just another way to bleed slower.
Later, Arthur summoned them to the study.
The air reeked of old cigars and older regrets. Books lined the shelves like they were props in a stage play—untouched, unread. The Kensington crest above the fireplace looked tarnished, like the brass itself was ashamed.
He didn't offer them seats.
"There's a way out," he said, voice clipped. "An offer."
Charlotte straightened. Cassie didn't move.
Arthur's eyes locked onto Cassie. "Christian Masters."
A silence hit so hard it echoed.
"He's proposed a full buyout—enough capital to save the company, quiet the investigation, stabilize the markets."
Cassie stared at him. "Why?"
Arthur's gaze faltered.
Cassie's voice turned to steel. "Say it."
He hesitated. "He asked for you."
Charlotte gasped.
Cassie blinked once, like she'd been slapped.
Arthur cleared his throat, tone retreating into numbers and logic. "It's a merger of sorts. He secures the company. We restore the name. You… go with him."
Cassie laughed.
It wasn't bitter. Not yet. It was the sound of a girl finally watching her worst expectations confirm themselves.
"You didn't sell the house," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
Arthur looked away.
"You sold me."
She didn't storm upstairs. She walked—slow, deliberate steps like a soldier returning from a war she hadn't signed up for.
In her room, she threw open her laptop. The homepage loaded instantly.
"MASTERS BAILS OUT KENSINGTONS—FOR A PRICE."
Below the headline: a photo of him.
Christian Masters.
Tall. Cold. Tailored. The kind of man who didn't walk into a room—he owned it. Leaning against a black luxury car, phone in hand, sunglasses cutting across his cheekbones like blades.
The quote beneath it hit harder than any press leak.
"If you want something elegant, rare, and wild—you don't rent it. You buy it."
He hadn't said her name.
He didn't need to.
Cassie stared at the screen until her vision blurred. Her pulse thudded in her ears.
She'd never met him. Never spoken a single word to him.
But in that moment—she hated him with everything she had.
Night crept in slow and quiet. The kind of night that listened.
No one knocked—until someone did.
Three measured taps. Familiar. Expected.
Arthur.
Cassie didn't move.
"You leave in five days," he said through the door.
She remained silent.
"Pack something that photographs well."
His footsteps faded.
Cassie stood alone in the dark, her reflection caught in the window's ghost-glass. She looked like a blur—part girl, part name, part myth.
She touched the glass.
"They didn't sell the house," she whispered.
Her voice cracked like the frost under her bare feet that morning.
"They sold me."