Cassian's POV
The first thing he noticed was the emptiness.
Not the physical kind. The kind that lingered in the air after something meaningful had been taken away.
Cassian opened his eyes slowly. The ceiling above him came into focus, smooth and white. His sheets were tangled around his hips. The right side of the bed, cold.
She was gone.
He reached across the empty space, as if touch might conjure proof she'd stayed longer than the night.
But the sheets had cooled. Her scent had started to fade.
The echo of her stillness was louder than any goodbye.
He hadn't expected her to stay.
But he hadn't expected the ache, either.
He sat up carefully, head pounding from the champagne, his muscles aching in strange, forgotten ways. A groan slipped from his throat before he could swallow it down.
His apartment was quiet. Still. Too still.
The girl—woman—Omega—had left.
There was no note. No trace. Not even a footprint on the hardwood.
Except…
He caught it the moment he turned to the pillow beside him.
A shimmer of gold.
He reached for it before thinking, his fingers curling around a delicate object.
An earring.
Vintage. Leaf-shaped. Handmade, if he wasn't mistaken. The kind of thing passed down rather than purchased.
Cassian frowned, holding it between thumb and forefinger. It felt too personal. Too real.
She hadn't meant to leave it.
Which meant she'd been in a rush.
Which meant she'd been afraid.
His jaw tightened.
Her name, he didn't know.
That detail so simple, so human, was gone. No syllables. No title. Nothing he could speak aloud or search for in the system. Just a silence where her name should have lived.
Not her full face, either.
Only flashes. A mouth parted on a breath. The shape of her jaw catching lamplight. A flicker of dark lashes when her eyes had closed. Not enough to sketch. Not enough to hold on to.
Just impressions.
The curve of her spine beneath his hand. The tremble in her breath when instinct blurred into surrender. The way her fingers had clutched his collar like she didn't know if she wanted to pull him closer or push him away.
Just the heat.
A pressure that still throbbed beneath his skin. The kind that didn't fade with a cold shower or time. It lingered, thick and unsatisfied. Unresolved.
Only her body.
The way she'd fit against him, like memory, like instinct, like something written into his blood without his consent.
And her scent.
God, her scent.
It wasn't perfume. It wasn't sweet. It was clean and low and warm, like sunlight caught in cotton. Like something wild, not yet named. And it had buried itself in his lungs without permission.
---
A vibration cut through the silence. Sharp, insistent.
Cassian followed the sound into the kitchen, still barefoot.
The phone buzzed again on the edge of the marble counter, screen lighting up with half a dozen messages.
Cassian grabbed it.
Celeste: You vanished last night. We need to talk.
Board Secretary: You left before the director's toast. Not like you.
Two department heads: Looking forward to debrief—everything okay?
And then, Theo:
Theo Arlen: Where the hell did you disappear to? There's press follow-up and HR protocol. Call me.
The phone buzzed again.
Cassian answered. "Yes."
"Boss," Theo said, already halfway through a sentence. "You ghosted the second half of the gala. Press asked about you. The board noticed. You missed the morning recap and legal check-in. Do I need to clear today entirely or just-"
"I'm fine."
A pause. Then, cautiously: "Should I reschedule the engagement brunch with Celeste's family?"
Cassian stared at the wall, still holding the earring in his hand.
"Yes," he said flatly. "Push it. Indefinitely."
"…Copy that," Theo said after a beat. "And the director's gala speech?"
"Draft something about fatigue," Cassian replied. "Champagne. Long week."
Theo exhaled. "Understood. Glad you're alive, sir."
Cassian ended the call without another word.
For a man who built his life on clarity, this this not-knowing, cut deeper than it should have.
It wasn't just about instinct. It wasn't about duty.
It was about the way something had slipped past his defenses without permission.
And left a mark.
---
He rose, walked barefoot into his office, and opened the drawer of his desk. The one with the lock.
He placed the earring inside.
Then closed it with a sharp, deliberate click.
Out of sight.
Out of reach.
But not out of mind.
His fingers lingered on the edge of the drawer, eyes unfocused.
She hadn't told him her name.
She hadn't even said goodbye.
---
He sat back slowly, staring out at the skyline.
The city sprawled beneath him in glass and steel, sharp edges catching the pale dawn.
It looked unchanged.
But he wasn't.
The echo of her scent still caught in his breath.