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CASSAIN POV:
I wake up to sunlight slicing through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the unmistakable weight of someone else’s arm draped across my chest. Correction, two someone elses.
My head throbs in that dull, expensive way that only happens after too much champagne and not enough sleep. I stare at the ceiling of my penthouse, watching the city glint back at me like it’s smug about being awake before I am. To my left, a blonde I’m ninety percent sure is named Lily or Lila breathes softly, her hair fanned across my shoulder. To my right, dark curls spill over silk sheets, a leg thrown over mine like a claim.
I don’t remember inviting either of them to stay.
That’s not unusual.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, the vibration sharp and insistent. I reach for it blindly, already annoyed, until I see the caller ID.
Dad.
I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the pillow. Of course.
I answer on the third ring. “Morning,” I say, voice rough, falsely cheerful.
“Don’t take that tone with me,” Alaric Blackwood snaps. “Are you awake?”
“Barely,” I mutter.
“Well, fix that. You need to be at Étoile in two hours.”
I sit up, carefully disentangling myself from limbs and sheets. “Étoile? That place has a six-month waitlist.”
“I know,” he says flatly. “That’s why you’re going.”
I rub a hand down my face. “What’s this about?”
“It’s about you proving you’re not a liability,” he replies without missing a beat. “I’m sending you to finalize a deal. An important one. And before you open your mouth, yes, this is a test.”
The words land heavier than I expect.
“A test,” I repeat.
“You’ve coasted long enough,” he continues. “You want a real position in this company? You want to stop being a headline and start being taken seriously? Then you don’t screw this up.”
There’s a pause, pointed and deliberate.
“Be there,” he adds. Then the line goes dead.
I stare at my phone for a moment before letting out a slow breath. The girls stir beside me, one of them murmuring something unintelligible. The reality of my surroundings crashes in all at once, rumpled sheets, discarded clothes, the faint smell of last night’s perfume lingering in the air.
This is exactly what he’s talking about.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand, grabbing a robe from the chair. As I move around the room, the blonde opens her eyes.
“Hey,” she says sleepily, smiling like she’s won something.
“Morning,” I reply, already walking toward the window. I pull the curtains wider, letting the city spill in. “Listen, I’ve got a meeting.”
The brunette sits up too now, clutching the sheet to her chest. “Already?”
“Yes,” I say, turning back to them. “So I’ll have my driver take you home.”
There’s a flicker of disappointment, maybe annoyance, but neither of them argues. They never do. They gather their things quietly, efficiency born from experience. By the time they’re dressed, it’s like they were never here at all.
Once the door closes behind them, the penthouse feels cavernous.
I pour myself a glass of water and swallow two aspirin before collapsing onto the couch with my phone. Muscle memory takes over as I open my browser.
The blogs are already awake.
CASSIAN BLACKWOOD DOES IT AGAIN.
HEIR OR HEEDLESS? INSIDE BLACKWOOD’S LATEST NIGHT OUT.
PLAYBOY PRINCE OR CORPORATE JOKE?
I scroll, jaw tightening. There’s a grainy photo of me stepping out of a club, collar open, grin lazy. Another of me leaning into a car, one of last night’s girls laughing beside me. Speculation fills the captions, who she is, how long she’ll last, whether my father’s finally had enough.
I toss the phone aside.
Two hours.
I stand and head for the bathroom, stripping off the robe and stepping under the shower. The water is scalding, grounding. As steam fills the glass enclosure, I rest my hands against the wall and let my head drop forward.
This deal. This test. This is it.
I can already hear my father’s voice in my head, Don’t embarrass me. For once, I don’t want to. I want to walk into that restaurant and be more than the punchline, more than the heir who never grew up.
I shut off the water and towel off, catching my reflection in the mirror. The same sharp suit will do what it always does, clean me up, make me look like I belong. But underneath it, something shifts. Pressure, maybe. Or resolve.
I dress carefully, selecting a charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. I check the time once more before heading out, shoulders squared.
For the first time in a long time, this isn’t just another meeting.
It’s my chance to prove I’m more than the life I keep waking up in.
ARDEN’S POV:
My alarm goes off at six on the dot, a soft chime I chose because it doesn’t feel like an intrusion. I open my eyes immediately.
There’s no grogginess, no reaching for snooze. Mornings are for discipline. The city outside my windows is still quiet, muted in that pale gray hour before the sun commits. I swing my legs out of bed and stand, already mentally moving through the day ahead.
Running shoes. Water. Hair pulled back.
I’m out the door within ten minutes, the doorman offering a polite nod as I pass. The air is cool against my skin as I set off down the avenue, breath steady, pace controlled. I run the same route every morning, predictable, efficient, uninterrupted. The rhythm of my feet against the pavement clears my mind, each block a reminder that momentum is built, not inherited.
By the time I return, my muscles are warm and my thoughts sharpened.
Pilates comes next.
The studio is quiet, bathed in soft light and eucalyptus. I move through the session with precision, instructor corrections minimal. Control has always come naturally to me, of body, of expression, of outcome. While others chatter between sets, I focus on alignment, on breath, on the burn that comes from doing something correctly rather than excessively.
An hour later, I leave composed, centered, and already ahead of schedule.
Back home, I shower quickly, letting the heat loosen my muscles that the run tightened. I dress in tailored trousers and a fitted knit, neutral tones that say nothing and everything at once. My hair is smoothed back, makeup minimal. I don’t dress to be noticed; I dress to be taken seriously.
Breakfast is waiting in the kitchen, Greek yogurt, fresh berries, espresso. I sit at the marble island and open my tablet, scanning headlines while I eat.
SINCLAIR CORP POSTS RECORD-BREAKING QUARTER.
A NEW ERA UNDER ARDEN SINCLAIR’S STRATEGY.
THE DAUGHTER BEHIND THE GROWTH.
I read without smiling.
The articles credit my father by name, of course, but the subtext is clear. The expansion into emerging markets. The reallocation of underperforming assets. The aggressive acquisitions that analysts once called reckless. Every move they praise now was one I pushed for.
I take a sip of espresso and scroll.
Public recognition is a byproduct, not the goal. Still, it’s useful. Leverage always is.
At noon, I have a meeting. A property sale, one of several strategic realignments currently in motion. We’re offloading a legacy asset in exchange for two properties in an area no one’s paying attention to yet. It’s the kind of deal that looks unremarkable on paper and brilliant in five years.
The buyer is a corporation with a familiar name. Old money. Loud. I skim the briefing again, already aware of every figure, every clause. The representative is the founder’s son.
I don’t bother committing his reputation to memory. It’s irrelevant.
Men like that tend to confuse proximity with access, charm with competence. I’ve learned to let them reveal themselves before I decide how to handle them.
I clear my plate and stand, moving toward my bedroom to finish getting ready. My suit is laid out precisely where I left it the night before, a tailored blazer, sharp lines, nothing decorative. Jewelry is minimal: a watch, small gold hoops. Enough to signal taste without distraction.
As I fasten my watch, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Calm. Controlled. Untouchable, if I’ve done everything right.
This meeting isn’t personal. None of them ever are.
It’s a transaction. A calculated exchange of value. I intend to walk out with exactly what I want, and nothing I don’t.
By the time I step out the door, bag in hand, the city has fully woken. I move through it with purpose, already three steps ahead.
Noon will come quickly.
And I will be ready.
