The upstate lodge had already told me that. This told me more.
Charleston real estate south of Broad wasn’t an accident. It was a choice. It was access. It was power that didn’t need a podium.
And Cassian carried it the same way he carried everything else—like it was simply part of him. Like it didn’t require explanation.
Which somehow made it feel more dangerous.
Because men with that kind of money didn’t just have wealth.
They had reach.
I glanced at him again. He was watching me in that still way, as if he knew exactly where my thoughts were going and didn’t feel the need to interrupt.
“You’re doing it,” he said.
“Doing what.”
“Counting,” he replied. “Trying to solve.”
I lifted my chin. “Maybe I’m just noticing.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Same thing.”
He unlocked the front door and stepped aside, letting me enter first.
Choice.
Always that.
I crossed the threshold.
Inside, the house felt like him—dark wood, clean lines, no clutter. Not cold. Quiet, in the way a place is quiet when it’s owned, not borrowed.
He set my suitcase down near the staircase.
“You can take the guest room,” he said.
I blinked.
“What?”
His gaze didn’t shift. “You can.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
A pause. Then, simply: “Then you won’t.”
Heat threaded through me.
I set my purse down slowly, heart thudding harder than it should have.
“You’re very controlled,” I murmured.
“Yes.”
“And you expect me to be.”
“No,” he said. “I expect you to choose.”
