“It won’t happen again,” I said, and meant it.
“See that it doesn’t.” Rafael returned his attention to whatever was on his desk. “Find out who hit Trev and why. I want names by end of business tomorrow.”
I left his office with the weight of my own incompetence sitting like a stone on my chest. The past twelve hours had fractured something fundamental in my ability to function, and the consequences were already rippling outward in ways I couldn’t control.
I needed to fix this. Needed to compartmentalize whatever was happening with Cassandra and get back to being the sharp, calculating operative that Rafael had trusted to run his Chicago operations.
Needed to stop feeling like she was the only thing that mattered in a world that had trained me to value nothing.
The problem was, I wasn’t entirely sure it was possible anymore.
Chapter 6 – Cassandra
The office was suffocating.
I’d been staring at the same spreadsheet for the better part of an hour, and the numbers had started to blur together into meaningless symbols that my brain couldn’t quite process. My coffee had gone cold hours ago. My shoulders felt like they were made of concrete. And somewhere in the back of my mind, there was a low, persistent hum that wouldn’t shut the fuck up.
Rafael’s voice cut through it all.
“Cassandra. Are…are you okay?”
I blinked, the question registering as if it had come from underwater. When I looked up, he was leaning back in his chair with that expression that suggested he was seeing something he didn’t particularly like.
“Why are you asking?” I replied carefully, already running through the possibilities. Had I missed something? Forgotten something? Given myself away somehow?
“You sent me the wrong file this morning.” He set down his cigar with deliberate care. “And your scheduling was off. Your calendar recommendations have an error in them. Meetings are double-booked.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
In three years—three years of working for Rafael, of being his shadow, of orchestrating every minute detail of his existence with surgical precision—I had never made a mistake. Not one. I prided myself on it. Built my entire identity around the fact that I was flawless in the details, ruthless in the execution, someone who already had all the answers before anyone thought to ask the question.
Until today.
“I’m fine,” I heard myself say, though the words felt like they were coming from someone else. “I’ll correct it immediately.”
Rafael watched me for a long moment, and something twisted in my chest. Dark and bitter and nauseating. He always checked my work. Had he been doing it all along? Monitoring me, verifying every detail I provided, double-checking the sacred trust I’d thought we shared?
Because if he could manage without me, if he could function without my hands controlling the machinery of his life, then what the fuck was the point of keeping me around? What made me valuable if not my flawlessness, my ability to anticipate his needs before he voiced them?
One more thing to get confused about. One more thing to hurt over.
“Cassandra.” His voice was quieter now. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” I said, and stood up before he could ask another question. “I’m sure.”
***
I didn’t go back to my desk. Instead, I locked myself in one of the spare offices, the kind of space no one ever used, with blinds half-drawn and the faint hum of the air conditioner filling the silence. The room smelled faintly of dust and stale coffee, papers stacked neatly on a desk that hadn’t seen real work in months.
I crossed to the small cabinet in the corner, where someone—probably Rafael—had left a bottle of whiskey and a few glasses for “late nights.” My hand shook as I uncorked it, the scent burning its way up my throat before I even poured.
Amber liquid splashed into the glass. I watched it swirl for a long moment before lifting it to my lips. The first sip seared,sharp and punishing, and that was exactly what I needed. Something that hurt enough to remind me I was still here.
The office felt smaller with every breath. The walls seemed to close in, pressing against the weight of everything I didn’t say, everything I refused to feel. I poured another glass.
The burn in my throat was immediate and all-consuming. It was the only thing that kept me grounded in my own skin, the only sensation sharp enough to cut through the fog that had settled over everything.
One glass became two. Two became three. By the fifth glass, the whiskey had stopped tasting like alcohol and started tasting like forgetting.
