Julian stood in front of the shattered mirror, blood trickling from his knuckles, his reflection broken into jagged fragments—just like everything between him and Cassandra.
She was gone.
Not just gone from the penthouse, but gone from his world.
The press was circling like wolves. The Board had frozen half of Ashford Industries' assets until the scandal could be "contained." And every time he tried to sleep, all he saw was her eyes when she walked out.
Eyes filled with hurt, with disbelief. With love she wasn't sure he deserved anymore.
And maybe he didn't.
Vienna.
Cassandra stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows of her hotel suite, Vienna glistening beneath a layer of snow. She hadn't eaten in twelve hours. She hadn't slept in twenty-four.
But she'd booked a ticket to Geneva.
And she'd called someone she swore she'd never speak to again.
Her ex-fiancé.
Adrian.
"You look like hell," Adrian said, sipping his espresso with the smug grace of a man who always wore too much cologne.
"I feel worse," she admitted, sliding into the seat across from him.
Adrian leaned in, eyes narrowing. "Julian Ashford broke your heart, didn't he?"
She didn't answer.
"Let me help you," he said, all charm and poison. "Let's burn them down together."
Cassandra laughed—just once, bitter and sharp. "Still a villain, I see."
"I prefer strategic mastermind." He raised his cup. "To revenge."
But Cassandra wasn't here for revenge.
She was here for clarity.
And maybe, if she was being honest, she wanted to see what jealousy looked like on Julian Ashford.
Back in Manhattan
Julian watched the leaked tabloid photo hit the internet: Cassandra having coffee in Vienna… with Adrian Laveau.
His vision went red.
He knew what Adrian was. A manipulator. A snake. A threat.
Julian slammed his fist on the conference table. "Book the jet. We're going to Austria."
His assistant blinked. "Is this a rescue mission or a declaration of war?"
Julian's eyes darkened.
"Both."
Vienna. Two days later.
Cassandra stepped into the art gallery, trying to breathe through her nerves. The charity exhibit was crowded, elegant, and exactly the kind of place she used to feel comfortable in.
Until she felt his presence behind her.
Julian.
She turned slowly, her chest rising and falling.
"I told you not to follow me."
"And you knew I would."
He stepped closer, eyes searing into hers.
"I don't care about the Board. Or the company. Or your smug ex-boyfriend."
He took her hand.
"I care about you. About us."
Her throat tightened. "Then why didn't you fight for me?"
"I was too busy fighting myself," he admitted.
He pulled her closer until their foreheads touched.
"I'm done letting fear run the show."
His lips brushed hers, and she melted. But she didn't kiss him back. Not yet.
"You said you didn't trust me."
"I was wrong."
"And now?"
"I trust you more than I trust myself."
Silence. Then…
"I'm still angry."
"Good," he murmured, lips ghosting down her neck. "Be angry in bed."
She laughed—and slapped his chest. "Julian."
But her fingers gripped his lapel tighter.
He kissed her like a storm: fast, wild, consuming.
That night, they didn't sleep.
They made up—again and again—until exhaustion stole their fury and replaced it with something tender, something terrifying.
Something like love.
The Next Morning
Cassandra curled into Julian's chest, blinking at the soft winter light pouring into the hotel room.
He was already awake, his hand brushing lazy circles on her hip.
"You snore," she said sleepily.
"You drool."
They both smiled.
But just as Julian leaned in for another kiss, his phone buzzed with a priority alert.
He frowned, reading the message. Then he went still.
"What is it?" she asked, sitting up.
He turned to her slowly. "The merger's been sabotaged."
Her heart stopped. "By who?"
Julian's jaw clenched. "By someone we both trusted."