Cassandra came into his life at a charity auction, the kind where everyone wore generosity like jewelry. She was beautiful in a controlled way, hair glossy, laughter practiced, every gesture choreographed to make you feel chosen.
She said all the right things.
“Does all this power ever feel heavy?”
“You must have fought so hard.”
Marcus, who had learned to see through sales pitches and corporate smiles, still found himself… wanting to believe her.
Her warmth felt like relief.
Her admiration felt like love.
And when she suggested they go public, when she wore his last name at events before they even set a date, when she talked about “our legacy” in interviews—Marcus told himself it was excitement. Commitment. The kind of boldness he’d always respected.
The twins complicated everything.
They weren’t Cassandra’s children. They were Marcus’s—born from a relationship that ended quietly years before Cassandra, with a woman who didn’t want the spotlight and didn’t want Marcus’s world. The mother had died suddenly, leaving Marcus with two toddlers and a grief that didn’t fit inside his calendar.
He hired nannies, teachers, a security detail.
He built a fortress around them.
But Cassandra had never warmed to the boys. She smiled at them for photographs. She patted their heads like you pat a stranger’s dog. And when the cameras were gone, she called them “a complication,” “a reminder,” “a bargaining chip for your ex.”
Marcus tried to reason with himself.
She’ll adjust.
She’ll grow to love them.
She needs time.
It happened late one night in his office, after everyone had gone home. Marcus was reviewing financial reports when he noticed an unfamiliar request queued in the system: a proposed transfer from one of his offshore accounts into a new trust.
The trust was named for Cassandra.
The request wasn’t authorized.
He called his CFO, then his lawyer. They confirmed what his stomach already knew: someone had tried to move money without clearance, using credentials that should’ve been locked behind two-factor approvals and physical keys.
It could’ve been a hacker.
But the attempt came from inside his own network.
Inside his own home.
Marcus didn’t accuse Cassandra. Not yet. He watched. He listened. He started testing little things. Quiet boundaries. Subtle denials.
Every time he blocked a financial move, Cassandra’s sweetness soured for a day, then returned with extra frosting.
And then there was the private jet.
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