Chapter 94: The Truth

‎The truth?

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‎The word hung in the air like a noose. I stared into the amber depths of my wine, watching the light fracture against the glass.

The truth was a luxury I hadn’t been able to afford since I was a child. The truth was that Noah Bennett was no longer just a name on a payroll or a body in a suit.

The truth was that the scent of him, soap, sweat, and that faint, irritatingly sweet aroma of the pastries he’d stuffed his face with at the wedding, was currently the only thing keeping my head above water.

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‎The truth was that when I was lying on that grass, gasping for air with a piece of a wooden beam in my side, my first thought wasn’t about the pain or the blood.

It was the look of pure, unadulterated terror on Noah’s face. And in that moment, I realized I would have stayed on that horse and ridden through hell itself just to keep that look from turning into a look of belonging to someone else.

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‎But I couldn’t say that. Not to Cyan, whose eyes were currently dissecting me with surgical precision. And certainly not to myself.

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‎”Noah is… entertaining,” I said, my voice sounding like gravel under a boot. I leaned back, forcing my muscles to relax, forcing the lie to take root. “He’s fun to mess with. He has this ridiculous spark of defiance that most of the sycophants in my life lack. It’s a novelty.”

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‎”So you don’t care about him?” Cyan asked, his voice soft, probing for the bruise.

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‎I took a slow, deliberate sip of wine. My chest ached. “I don’t care about him, Cyan. I own him. There’s a distinct difference between affection and possession. I don’t care about my watch either, but I’d be damn annoyed if someone tried to take it off my wrist.”

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‎In the silence that followed, I thought I heard a faint rustle from the hallway, the sound of a foot shifting on carpet, or perhaps just the ghost of Julian’s memory mocking me. My jaw tightened.

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‎”Is there really a difference?” Cyan asked, his head tilted. “Because you’re holding onto that watch pretty tight for someone who isn’t worried about the time.”

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‎”Yes,” I snapped. “One is an emotional liability. The other is a matter of principle.”

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‎”And what happens when you get bored of him?” Cyan’s voice was relentless, peeling back the layers of my carefully constructed apathy. “What happens when the ’novelty’ of his defiance wears off and he just becomes another tired assistant? What then, Cassie?”

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‎”Then I’ll let him go,” I said, the words feeling like ash on my tongue. “Simple as that. I’ll cut him a check, sign the NDAs, and send him back to whatever unremarkable life he was living before I found him.”

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‎”And you won’t feel anything?”

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I’d feel like the world had gone gray. I’d feel the silence in this suite like a physical weight. I’d feel like I lost the only thing in years that made me feel like more than a cold-blooded extension of Charles Wolfe’s will.

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‎”Why would I?” I said aloud, my eyes meeting Cyan’s with a frigid stare. “He’s nothing special. He’s a junior assistant with a smart mouth and a penchant for failing at basic tasks. There are thousands of Noah Bennetts in the world.”

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‎Cyan watched me for a long beat, his expression unreadable. “Then set the poor boy free, Cassie. If he’s nothing special, and you’re bored of the ’principle’ of him, let him go tonight. Alex wants him. Why keep him in a cage if you don’t even like the bird?”

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‎”No,” I said instantly. The word was out before I could check it, sharp and final.

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‎”So you’re lying,” Cyan whispered, a slow smirk spreading across his face.

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‎I looked at him sharply, my hand tightening around the stem of my glass until I feared it might shatter. “Excuse me?”

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‎”You’re lying. To me. To yourself. To the very walls of this room.”

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‎Cyan stood up, pacing the rug with a feline grace that seemed to mock my own stiff, injured movements.

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‎”You’re usually more interested in bright, shiny objects and the latest gossip, Cyan,” I said, my voice tight. “This isn’t like you, being so deeply invested in a subject as boring as my HR arrangements.”

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‎Cyan laughed, the sound bright and jarring in the dimly lit suite. “Oh, please. You and Noah are anything but boring. You’re a car crash in slow motion, and I have front-row seats. I’m just curious why a man who claims a person means ’nothing’ is currently looking like he wants to murder me for suggesting a change in management.”

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‎I remained silent, staring at him. Underneath all the glitter and the playfulness, Cyan was one of the few people who could see through the Wolfe façade. He knew the cracks because he’d helped me hide them years ago.

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‎Cyan drifted behind the couch, leaning over the back of the mahogany frame to whisper directly into my ear. “I have a little theory… You actually don’t want to let Noah go because he is starting to mean something to you. Real meaning, not ’property’ meaning. But you don’t want to admit it because your ego won’t allow it, Mr. Wolfe. You’re terrified that if you admit you like him, you’ll lose your edge. You’re terrified he’ll become another Julian.”

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‎The air in the room vanished. The mention of that name felt like a physical blow to my injured ribs.

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‎”You’re drunk,” I hissed, my hand clenching the stem of my wine glass until the crystal groaned.

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‎Cyan didn’t back away. Instead, he sauntered around the side of the couch, coming back into my direct line of sight. He stood right over me, his eyes glinting with a dangerous, compassionate light. “I’m perfectly sober, Cassie. Admit it. You like him. You like the way he challenges you. You like the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t looking. You like him… don’t you?”

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‎The frustration that had been building since the wedding, since the fall, since this whole trip, boiled over. I didn’t think. I moved.

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‎As Cyan stood there, smug and expectant, I surged upward. I grabbed him by the lapels of his fuchsia blazer and shoved him backward. He let out a small, airy oomph as I pinned him down onto the couch cushions, my weight hovering over him, my hands bunching the expensive fabric of his jacket. My breath was ragged, my heart slamming against the bandages on my chest.

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‎Cyan didn’t look afraid. If anything, the closer I got, the more triumphant he looked. He was full-on grinning now, his eyes dancing with a playful, predatory light.

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‎”Who? Noah?” he purred. He didn’t pull away; instead, he draped his arms loosely around my neck, his fingers trailing feathered patterns against the nape of my hairline. He hooked one leg over my hip, pulling me deeper into his space as if we were back in a London nightclub rather than a tense suite in Spain.

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‎”Yes,” I spat, my voice dropping to a dangerous growl. I ignored the way his touch sought to soften my anger. “Is this some pathetic plan you two hatched to see if I’d fold? Did he put you up to this?”

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‎Cyan’s grin widened, his gaze dropping to my lips before snapping back to my eyes. He tightened his hold on my neck, pulling my face inches from his until I could smell the expensive wine on his breath.

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‎”Well, Cassie… what do you think?” He laughed, a low, melodic sound that vibrated against my chest. He used his thumb to trace the line of my jaw, his touch irritatingly familiar. “Do you think he’s really that desperate to get away from you? Or do you think he’s just as terrified of the truth as you are? He’s just waiting for a reason to stay, and you’re too much of a coward to give him one.”

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‎I stared at him, the heat of my anger cooling into a cold, hollow realization. I was losing control. Not of the company, not of the deal with Durant, but of myself. I was standing over my oldest friend, practically in a tangle of limbs, ready to strike him over a boy who was currently hiding in the next room.

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‎I let go of his jacket as if it had turned white-hot and shoved myself away. I stood abruptly, straightening my own suit with trembling fingers, my skin still tingling where he had touched me. I couldn’t be in this room anymore. I couldn’t look at Cyan’s knowing face or the slightly ajar door to Noah’s room.

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‎”I’m going to bed,” I said, my voice flat, dead.

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‎”Cassie—” Cyan started, his voice losing its mocking edge as he sat up, smoothing his hair.

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‎”Goodnight, Cyan,” I cut him off.

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‎I didn’t wait for a response. I walked toward my room, every step a conscious effort to keep my posture straight, to keep the Wolfe mask from slipping further. As I passed Noah’s door, I didn’t stop. I didn’t look in. But I knew he was there. I could feel him like a magnetic pull.

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‎He’s nothing special, I repeated to myself like a mantra. He’s a distraction. He’s property.

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‎But as I closed my own door and leaned against the cold wood, the silence of the room felt like an accusation. I reached into my pocket and felt the weight of the silver lighter—the J pressing into my palm.

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‎I wasn’t just lying to Cyan. I was failing at the only thing I was ever trained to do: survive.

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