Chapter 109: The morning after…

CASSIAN

The sharp, persistent chirp of a ringing phone didn’t just wake me; it felt like a serrated blade sawing through the thick, whiskey-soaked fog of my skull. Every cell in my body throbbed in a rhythmic, agonizing protest against the light of morning.

I groaned, my arm feeling like deadweight as I reached blindly toward the nightstand. My fingers brushed against silk and cold glass before finally closing around the device. The screen was a blinding supernova in the room, and I squinted through the haze until a name came into focus.

Louis Durant.

I swiped the screen with a thumb that felt numb. “Durant,” I said. My voice was a ruined thing… gravelly and raw, as if I’d spent the night swallowing sandpaper and broken glass.

“Mr. Wolfe. I hope I’m not calling too early,” Durant’s voice came through, calm and impeccably composed.

I forced myself into a semi-upright position, the room tilting dangerously. “It’s fine,” I lied, rubbing a hand over my face. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve been considering your family’s offer,” Durant said, a significant pause following his words. “To acquire my late wife’s company. I’d like to discuss it further over breakfast, if you’re available. This morning. At my estate here in the city.”

My attention sharpened instantly, cutting through the hangover like a cold wind. I hadn’t expected the old man to fold this quickly. In this business, speed usually meant someone was desperate or someone had seen the light.

“Of course,” I said, my professional mask slipping back into place by sheer force of will. “What time?”

“Nine o’clock, if that works for you.”

I glanced at the top of the screen. 7:23 AM. Just over ninety minutes to transform from a hungover wreck into a Wolfe. “I’ll be there.”

He gave me the address and hung up. I lowered the phone, the silence of the room rushing back in, and that’s when I finally took in my surroundings.

The room was bright… far too bright for a man who felt like his brain was being squeezed by a vice. Everything was bold pinks, gleaming golds, and pristine whites. It was unmistakably Cyan’s personal sanctuary.

I looked down. The expensive sheets were a tangled mess around my legs. A trail of clothes… my tailored suit, Cyan’s designer shirt… led like breadcrumbs from the door to the foot of the bed. Beside me, sprawled out with the effortless grace of a cat, was Cyan.

He was deeply asleep, his face peaceful in a way it never was when he was awake. He was naked under the duvet, the edge of the blanket dipping just low enough to show the faint, angry red marks I’d left on his shoulder. I looked at my own chest… scratches decorated my skin, and the dull ache in my muscles told a story that my memory was only just beginning to reconstruct.

Fragments returned in jagged shards. Mateo’s estate. The clay pigeons. The smoke. Cyan arriving like a whirlwind. The car ride… his pity, my snarling irritation. Then the villa. Stumbling up the stairs with, his butler… supporting my other side.

Then, the bedroom. Cyan trying to help me, and me being a difficult bastard because the hollow space Noah had carved into my chest was screaming for a distraction. I remembered grabbing Cyan. Flipping him. “Swear you haven’t been thinking about this.”

The kiss had been desperate. It wasn’t about romance; it was about erasure. I had wanted to drown out Noah’s voice, Julian’s ghost, and the crushing weight of my own reflection. We had gone at each other three more, maybe four times… I’d lost count… until we finally collapsed into a spent, sweaty heap.

I checked the time again. 7:28 AM. No time for a mid-morning crisis.

I forced myself out of the bed. My body protested every inch of the way, my head thudding with a hangover that was a literal physical weight. Cyan didn’t stir; his breathing remained steady and deep.

I made my way to the attached bathroom… an extravagant marble cavern with gold fixtures and a shower large enough for a small party. I turned the water on as hot as I could stand, stepping into the steam and letting the needles of water pound against my back and shoulders.

The water ran over the marks Cyan had left… the evidence of a night spent trying to forget another man. I pressed my forehead against the cool tile, closing my eyes, trying to force my brain to focus on Durant, on the acquisition, on anything but the sick feeling of guilt that was starting to bubble up beneath the surface of the alcohol.

I dried off with an oversized towel and found my clothes from the night before. They were wrinkled and smelled faintly of smoke and sex, but they would have to do. I dressed quickly, smoothing my hair and adjusting my collar. The mirror showed me exactly what I expected: a man who looked like he’d been through a war. Dark circles, bloodshot eyes, a jaw tight with suppressed pain.

But I’ve looked worse. I can pull myself together. I always do.

I descended the stairs quietly, but the villa was already bustling. Reggie appeared in the foyer as if he’d been waiting for me. He was the soul of discretion, his face a perfect mask of professional neutrality.

“Good morning, Mr. Wolfe,” he said. He didn’t blink at my disheveled suit or the fact that I was clearly doing the walk of shame from his boss’s bedroom.

“You…” I acknowledged, trying to remember what Cyan called him. I remembered him helping me up the stairs last night. His silence was a commodity I appreciated. “What’s your name again?”

“It’s Reginald Sir.”

“Right…”

“Would you like some coffee? Water? Perhaps something for the headache?” He asked. His tone was kind, almost knowing, in a way that suggested he had performed this exact service for many of Cyan’s “guests” before.

“Water would be good. And coffee. Black,” I said.

He led me to an opulent dining area. Moments later, he returned with a tray: ice-cold water, a steaming carafe of coffee, and three aspirin I hadn’t asked for but desperately needed.

“Thank you,” I said, downing the pills before I’d even sat down.

I was finishing my second cup of coffee at 8:15 AM, preparing to leave, when I heard footsteps on the stairs.

“Cassian?” The voice was sleepy and confused. “Cassian, where are you? Reggie! Have you seen Cassian?”

Cyan appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a heavy silk robe, his hair a wild mess. The hickies on his neck were stark against his pale skin. He saw me and relaxed slightly. “There you are. Where are you going?”

“I have a meeting,” I said, checking my watch. “With Durant.”

Cyan frowned. “The old man? Now?”

“Nine. At his estate.”

Cyan crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t need to,” I said, standing up.

“I don’t trust you to go by yourself. Not after last night.” He raised a groomed eyebrow. “You were blackout drunk and high twelve hours ago. You are very much not fine.”

“Cyan… ”

“I’m coming. End of discussion.”

We stared at each other. Ordinarily, I would have crushed that kind of defiance. But today, I was too wrung out, too empty to put up a fight. I let out a long, ragged sigh. “Fine. But hurry.”

“Give me five minutes,” he chirped, turning back toward the stairs.

Five minutes became thirty. I sat there, nursing the dregs of my coffee and staring at my phone. I avoided looking at my messages. I didn’t want to see Noah’s name. I didn’t want to know if he was okay. My pride was the only thing I had left, and it was a cold comfort.

At 8:45 AM, Cyan finally reappeared, looking like he’d stepped off a runway. He was in a designer suit that cost more than most people’s cars, his hair perfectly coiffed, and makeup expertly covering the marks I’d left on his neck. He looked perfect. I looked like a discarded cigarette.

“Okay. Let’s go,” he said.

We took his car… a sleek, customized beast that he drove with a terrifying level of confidence. The silence between us was heavy, loaded with the weight of what we’d done, but neither of us spoke of it. Cyan just navigated the Barcelona traffic, his eyes on the road.

We pulled up to Durant’s estate… a bastion of old money and understated elegance. Cyan parked and turned to me. “I’ll find some shops nearby. Text me when you’re done and I’ll pick you up.”

“Thanks,” I said, reaching for the door.

He studied my face for a second, his expression uncharacteristically soft. He looked like he wanted to say something… about last night, about Noah, about the wreck I was becoming. But he caught himself. “Go. Don’t keep the old man waiting.”

Durant’s staff escorted me to a sun-drenched study lined with thousands of leather-bound books. Louis Durant was seated by a window, a cup of tea in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He looked every bit the elder statesman of the business world.

I knocked on the doorframe. “Mr. Durant.”

He looked up, removed his reading glasses, and smiled. It was a warm, knowing smile that made me feel like he could see the hangover vibrating in my bones. “Mr. Wolfe. You’re here. Please, sit.”

I sat in a well-worn leather chair across from him.

“I was surprised to receive your call this morning,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I assume you’ve had time to consider our discussion.”

Durant nodded slowly, taking a measured sip of his tea. “I have. And I’ve come to a decision.” He set the cup down with a delicate clink. “I’m willing to sell my late wife’s company to the Wolfe family.”

Internally, I felt a jolt of surprise, but my face remained a mask of cool professional interest. “I’m glad to hear that. What changed your mind?”

Durant looked out the window at his manicured gardens. “I’ve been thinking about what you said at the wedding. About the company being a sinking ship, and me holding on for the wrong reasons.” He turned back to me, his eyes sharp. “You were right, Cassian. Elena would want her legacy protected, even if that means letting it go to someone… as efficient as you.”

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