Chapter 4 - The Night the Contract Stopped Mattering
By the third month, Penelope stopped remembering to call the engagement fake.
Not aloud.
She remained disciplined enough for that.
But inside herself, the word had lost meaning.
Cassian attended an early-morning bakery delivery because Penelope’s driver was sick.
He carried boxes in a thousand-dollar coat while complaining about cardboard quality.
Penelope attended a Mercer Holdings meeting and watched twelve executives become visibly nervous when she entered carrying cinnamon rolls.
Cassian gave her mother’s old recipe notebook to a professional conservator after noticing the pages were falling apart.
Penelope discovered Cassian funded three domestic violence shelters anonymously.
Neither mentioned any of these things.
Their relationship grew in quiet spaces.
Breakfast.
Car rides.
Late-night conversations.
Hands touching under tables.
Cassian’s palm at her back when crowds pressed too close.
Penelope straightening his tie before interviews.
They kissed.
Too often.
Always privately.
Always followed by Cassian looking as though he had lost an argument with himself.
Then came New York.
Cassian had meetings with investors and a public charity dinner.
Penelope had never stayed in a penthouse overlooking Central Park.
She spent ten minutes staring out the windows.
Cassian watched from the doorway.
“You like it.”
“It looks fake.”
“The city?”
“The view.”
He walked beside her.
“Everything expensive looks fake to you.”
“Because rich people keep polishing things until they lose personality.”
Cassian looked at her.
“Is that what you think happened to me?”
Penelope turned.
“You have plenty of personality.”
“That sounded insulting.”
“It was.”
He smiled.
At the charity dinner, things went wrong.
A reporter asked Penelope whether she knew Cassian had once been questioned in connection with a dockworker’s disappearance.
Cassian’s security moved immediately.
Penelope stayed.
“What happened to him?” she asked.
The reporter looked surprised.
Cassian’s face hardened.
The reporter continued.
“Thomas Reeve. Twenty-six. Worked at a Mercer terminal. Disappeared nine years ago.”
Penelope looked at Cassian.
“Is he alive?”
Cassian did not answer immediately.
The cameras captured everything.
Finally he said, “Yes.”
The reporter froze.
Penelope did too.
“Where?”
“Arizona.”
The room exploded with questions.
Cassian guided Penelope out.
In the elevator, she pulled away.
“You knew where he was?”
“Yes.”
“Why did everyone think he disappeared?”
“Because he wanted them to.”
Penelope stared.
Cassian exhaled.
“Thomas witnessed my father kill a man.”
The elevator seemed to stop moving.
“What?”
“My father threatened his family. I arranged new identities and moved them.”
“And let people suspect you?”
“Yes.”
“For nine years?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if my father’s remaining partners learned Thomas lived, they would finish what Michael started.”
Penelope stared at him.
“Why tell the truth now?”
Cassian looked at her.
“Because you asked.”
The doors opened.
Neither moved.
Penelope realized something devastating.
Cassian trusted her.
Not completely.
But enough to damage himself publicly rather than lie to her.
That night, the story became national news.
Thomas Reeve eventually released a statement confirming Cassian’s account.
Public opinion shifted again.
Cassian’s attorneys celebrated.
Cassian seemed exhausted.
Penelope found him on the penthouse terrace after midnight.
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
She stood beside him.
“Do you always protect people by making yourself look worse?”
He did not answer.
“Thomas. Dorian. Probably half the people in Chicago.”
Cassian looked at her.
“Dorian?”
“You blamed him publicly after your father died, didn’t you?”
Cassian’s face changed.
“How did you know?”
“Because everyone thinks he was the irresponsible son.”
“He was.”
“But not about the accident.”
Cassian looked away.
Penelope understood.
“You let people blame him.”
“That was what he wanted.”
“Why?”
Cassian’s voice became quiet.
“Because my father’s partners believed Dorian stole from them. If they thought I hated him too, they left him alone.”
Penelope’s chest tightened.
“The rule.”
Cassian said nothing.
“You’re protecting him.”
“No.”
“Cassian.”
“I am protecting everyone.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
He turned.
“You should go inside.”
She grabbed his hand.
“No.”
His gaze dropped to their joined hands.
“Penelope.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“About what?”
“Why you really chose me.”
He became still.
She had wondered for weeks.
The shelter pies.
The customer stories.
His research.
All too specific.
“You didn’t randomly find my bakery.”
“No.”
“How?”
Cassian looked toward the skyline.
“Your mother.”
Penelope’s heart stopped.
“What about her?”
“My grandmother knew her.”
Penelope stared.
“Impossible.”
“Your mother worked at Mercer House before you were born.”
“What?”
“For six months.”
Penelope stepped back.
“My mother was a nurse.”
“Before nursing school.”
Cassian reached into his coat and removed a folded photograph.
He handed it over.
A young woman stood beside an older elegant lady in the Mercer garden.
Penelope recognized her mother instantly.
Twenty years old.
Laughing.
Beside her stood Cassian’s grandmother.
Penelope’s hands shook.
“Where did you get this?”
“My grandmother kept it.”
“Why?”
“Your mother helped her leave my grandfather.”
Penelope looked up.
Cassian continued.
“My grandfather was abusive. She eventually returned for reasons I never understood, but your mother helped her hide for three months.”
Penelope could barely process it.
“Did my mother know who you were?”
“Probably.”
“She never told me.”
“My grandmother asked her not to.”
“Why did you come to the bakery?”
Cassian hesitated.
“I found the photograph after my grandmother died. Your mother’s name was written on the back. Years later, when my investigators reviewed potential candidates for the arrangement, your name appeared.”
“So I was chosen because of my mother.”
“At first.”
The words hurt more than they should.
“At first?”
Cassian stepped closer.
“I visited your bakery before the night we met.”
Penelope stared.
“How many times?”
“Seven.”
Her mouth fell open.
“Seven?”
“I sat in the back.”
“You stalked me.”
“I observed.”
“That is wealthy-man stalking.”
Cassian almost smiled.
Penelope didn’t.
“What were you looking for?”
“You.”
“Why?”
His expression changed.
“Because my grandmother wrote something in her journal.”
“What?”
Cassian hesitated.
Then he said, “If you ever meet Anne Blake’s daughter, be kind to her. Our family owes hers more than money.”
Penelope’s eyes burned.
“You paid my debt because of guilt.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Cassian came closer.
“Because the first morning I visited your bakery, an old man dropped his coffee.”
Penelope blinked.
“What?”
“You cleaned it up yourself. He was embarrassed. You gave him another coffee and pretended the first cup had a defective lid.”
She remembered.
“Second visit, you gave a crying woman a free slice of lemon cake.”
“Her husband had left her.”
“Third visit, you yelled at a delivery company because they were underpaying their driver.”
“They were.”
“Fourth visit, you sat with a homeless veteran for twenty minutes.”
Penelope stared.
Cassian’s voice lowered.
“By the seventh visit, I had forgotten about my grandmother’s journal.”
Her heart pounded.
“Then why didn’t you just ask me on a date?”
Cassian actually looked confused.
Penelope laughed through sudden tears.
“You are unbelievable.”
“I didn’t want a date.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What did you want?”
He looked at her as if the answer frightened him.
“You.”
The city disappeared.
Penelope stepped toward him.
Cassian whispered, “The contract gave me a reason.”
“To what?”
“To keep you close.”
Penelope touched his face.
“You could have just said that.”
“I don’t know how.”
“I noticed.”
Then she kissed him.
Cassian’s arms went around her.
No photographers.
No excuses.
No stopping.
The kiss deepened until Penelope forgot cold air existed.
Cassian pulled away first.
His forehead rested against hers.
“If we do this—”
“We’re already doing this.”
“You know what I mean.”
She did.
The line they had avoided.
The contract’s safest boundary.
Penelope looked at him.
“I don’t want fake anymore.”
Cassian closed his eyes.
“Penelope.”
“Do you?”
His answer was barely audible.
“No.”
That night, they crossed the final boundary.
Not carelessly.
Not because of the arrangement.
Because somewhere between bakery mornings, hot chocolate, family secrets, and badly made coffee, something real had happened.
In the morning, Penelope woke against Cassian’s chest.
For the first time since meeting him, he looked peaceful.
Then his phone rang.
Cassian answered.
His body went rigid.
Penelope sat up.
“What?”
He listened.
His face changed.
“When?”
Pause.
“Keep him there.”
He ended the call.
“Who?”
Cassian stood.
“Dorian.”
Penelope’s stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
“Federal agents detained him.”
“For what?”
Cassian looked toward the window.
“Conspiracy to murder Thomas Reeve.”
Penelope stared.
“No.”
“The evidence came from inside Mercer Holdings.”
“You don’t believe it.”
Cassian did not answer.
“Cassian.”
His silence terrified her.
Thirty minutes later they were on a plane to Chicago.
Penelope held his hand.
Cassian did not pull away.
But somewhere over Pennsylvania, he whispered four words.
“My father warned me.”
Penelope looked at him.
She understood immediately.
May you like
The past had returned.
And this time, someone was using it perfectly.
