Prologue – Cassandra
Two Years Ago
The plane’s engines hummed beneath me like a predator’s purr, and for once, I wasn’t calculating Rafael’s next move or memorizing his schedule. I was thirty thousand feet above the mess Joaquin left behind, and my phone—that electronic leash that usually buzzed with Rafael’s commands every thirty seconds—sat silent.
I smirked, tapping my black-painted nails against the leather armrest. When was the last time I had a day off? Hell, when was the last time I had an hour that belonged to me alone? The answer crawled up from some buried corner of my memory: never. Not since Rafael pulled me out of that shithole Seattle club where I was dodging grabby hands and serving overpriced drinks to underachieving men.
The pilot’s voice crackled through the intercom, announcing our descent into Ohio. I peered out the window at the sprawling city below, lights twinkling like scattered diamonds against black velvet. It looked clean from up here. Innocent. Like it hadn’t been touched by the kind of darkness that followed men like Rafael around like a faithful dog.
But I knew better. There was no such thing as innocence when you lived in my world.
***
The club reeked of expensive sin—designer cologne wrestling with cigar smoke, sweat mixing with the metallic tang of money changing hands in dark corners. The bass line thrummed through the floor, up my legs, and settled somewhere low in my chest like a second heartbeat. I inhaled deeply, tasting freedom on my tongue for the first time in months.
“Aged Bordeaux,” I told the bartender, sliding Rafael’s black card across the marble bar top. “The good shit.”
He didn’t even blink at the price tag. In this world, money talked, and Rafael’s card screamed. The wine came in a glass that probably cost more than most people’s rent, but fuck it. Not my money, not my business. I took a sip and let it burn away the taste of constant vigilance.
The club pulsed around me, bodies moving to music that demanded surrender, conversations conducted in whispers and loaded glances. I was used to watching, cataloging, filing away information for later use. But tonight? Tonight I was’ just Cassandra, not Rafael’s shadow. Just a woman with her boss’s black card, expensive wine, and time to kill.
I’d gotten three sips in when he approached.
He had that dangerous edge that should have sent smart girls running—early forties, dark hair with silver threaded through it, and eyes that had seen things they probably shouldn’t have. His suit fit too well for him to be completely legit, and there was something predatory in the way he moved through the crowd, like he owned every room he entered.
My gut screamed a warning, but the wine had loosened something inside me that had been wound tight for too fucking long. When he slid onto the stool next to mine without invitation, I didn’t tell him to fuck off. Instead, I angled my body toward his, letting my knee brush against his thigh.
“Drinking alone?” His voice was smoke and whiskey, designed to make women forget their better judgment.
“Not anymore,” I said, lifting my glass in a mock toast. “To bad decisions.”
He laughed, and the sound sent heat spiraling through my chest. “I’ll drink to that.”
By midnight, we were a tangle of desperate hands and hungry mouths in his hotel room. His shirt hit the floor first, followed by my black slacks. My lipstick—blood red andperfectly applied—smeared across his jaw as he bit down on my neck hard enough to leave marks.
I should have cared. I should have thought about Rafael, about work, about the thousand reasons this was stupid. But his hands were rough and sure, and it had been so goddamn long since someone had touched me like I was more than just an efficient machine built to manage someone else’s life.
“Jesus,” he growled against my throat, his fingers tangling in my hair hard enough to sting. “You’re going to ruin me.”
I laughed, the sound coming out breathless and sharp. “Good. I like ruining things.”
He backed me toward the bed with purpose, and I let him. I let him strip away the last of my clothes, let him map every inch of my skin with his mouth like he was memorizing me. When he finally slid inside me, I arched up to meet him with a hunger that surprised us both.
This wasn’t love. This wasn’t even affection. This was raw, desperate need—the kind that burned through you and left you wondering how you had survived without it. He fucked me like he was trying to claim something, and I let him try, knowing all the while that nothing and no one owned me. Not even Rafael. Not even myself.
I woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the distant hum of city traffic. The sheets were twisted around my legs, and my hair—usually perfect—was a black tangle across the pillow. My companion from last night was gone, but his cologne still clung to my skin. A slip of paper rested on the mattress where his body should have been. “We need to talk…call me.” Below it, a phone number was scrawled in hurried black ink.
I laughed, actually laughed, as I tore the note in half, then quarters, then confetti that I sprinkled into the wastebasket likeI was celebrating. Men like that always thought one night meant something more than it was. They thought good pussy came with strings attached.
They thought wrong.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of expensive shops and overpriced spa treatments. I charged everything to Rafael’s account—not because I needed to, but because I could. Because for once, I wasn’t asking permission or calculating consequences. I was just existing in a world where my biggest decision was whether to get the Swedish massage or the hot stone treatment.
By sunset, I was back in Rafael’s Ohio suite—all marble and leather and windows that offered a view of the city I’d probably never see again. I poured myself another glass of wine and put on music, something with enough bass to drown out the silence.
I was halfway through packing when the knock came.
I opened the door wearing nothing but a silk robe, my hair loose around my shoulders. He was standing there in the hallway—last night’s mistake in an expensive suit, looking like he belonged in boardrooms instead of strange women’s hotel rooms.
