Chapter 5:
The black helicopter touched down with surgical grace, stirring the grass into spirals. Tall reeds bordering the Wolfe estate flattened like secrets bowing to power.
Eden gripped her oversized sunglasses as wind whipped around her. Below them, sprawled across the cliffside, stood the Wolfe family estate—a mansion so massive it made Cassian's Manhattan penthouse look modest. White columns. Endless windows. An ocean view that looked like a CGI dream.
This wasn't a house.
It was a kingdom.
Cassian leaned across her casually. "Try not to look so shocked."
"I'm not shocked," she replied. "I'm horrified. You have two places like this?"
He smirked. "Three, actually."
The helicopter settled on a manicured helipad. Staff stood ready in crisp uniforms, unmoved by the landing.
A tall man with silver-streaked hair and an expression like steel stepped forward.
"Miss Blake," he said. "I'm Morgan, estate manager. Welcome."
Eden smiled politely. "Thanks. Beautiful place."
Morgan didn't blink. "It has its history."
Cassian chuckled under his breath. "Most of it's terrible."
They were shown to the guest wing—which, insultingly, had its own staircase and baby grand piano.
Eden's suite looked like something out of a Bridgerton fantasy: creamy pastels, gold accents, a chandelier above the bed, and a closet bigger than her old apartment.
Cassian hovered behind her.
"You okay?"
Eden turned slowly. "Tell me again why we're here."
"My father's seventy. Public appearances matter. And Verena's coming—with a date."
She narrowed her eyes. "Who?"
"Someone with just enough money to be annoying, and not enough power to be me."
Eden rolled her eyes. "So we're here to remind the world who the real Wolfe is?"
Cassian didn't smile. "Something like that."
The welcome dinner was brutal.
Not the food—the lobster risotto practically melted on her tongue.
But the atmosphere?
Knives.
Smiles with teeth.
Every Wolfe relative watched her like she'd tracked mud across royal marble.
Cassian sat tall beside her, his hand resting beneath the table on her thigh—more support than flirtation.
"Eden," a blonde woman across the table asked sweetly, "how did you two meet again?"
Before Eden could speak, Cassian interjected.
"Art gallery," he said smoothly. "She mistook me for a server."
Polite laughter rippled.
"She lectured me about Monet and capitalism," Cassian added. "That's when I knew."
He turned to Eden with such convincing affection, her breath caught.
God help her, she almost believed him too.
"Well," someone else muttered, "at least she's pretty."
Cassian's hand flexed under the table.
Eden smiled like a blade. "Pretty enough to land the heir, apparently."
This time, the laughter had an edge of respect.
Later, she escaped to the balcony.
The wind off the ocean bit at her skin, but she welcomed it.
Cassian joined her, silent as always.
"You know your family hates me, right?" she said.
"They hate everyone," he replied. "They just hide it better behind money."
She huffed a laugh. "Then I'm fitting in nicely."
"You held your own." He leaned on the railing beside her. "The Monet story was true, by the way."
Eden blinked. "Wait—what?"
"You argued with me for twenty minutes," he said. "Called me a 'soulless patron of capitalism.'"
Her jaw dropped. "You were that guy?!"
He grinned. "Still asked for your number."
"You're lying."
He reached into his jacket and handed her a folded piece of paper. Inside: a rough pencil sketch of a twisted city skyline blooming into flowers.
"You dropped this," he said. "The night we met."
Her fingers trembled. "You… kept it?"
"You weren't forgettable, Eden."
She looked up. "Neither were you."
The next morning, a knock shattered the peace.
Cassian stirred beside her—fully clothed, thank God—and groaned.
Morgan stood in the hallway, grim. "Miss Blake, you're needed downstairs."
"What happened?" Eden asked, heart already racing.
"There's been a leak."
In the estate's drawing room, security experts huddled around a laptop. Onscreen: footage.
Eden. Cassian's penthouse.
Her stepping into the master bedroom. Undressing. Nothing explicit—but more than enough to scandalize the media.
Cassian's jaw turned to stone.
Eden's mouth fell open. "Who the hell got this?"
"A private blog," Morgan said. "It's spreading."
"Verena," Cassian growled.
"She wouldn't have access," Eden snapped.
"She doesn't need access," he bit back. "She has people."
Then, gentler: "I promised you privacy. I'm sorry."
Eden backed away. "They're going to crucify me. I'm just some broke artist with a borrowed dress. They'll say I slept my way into this."
Cassian stepped forward, steady. "Then we take the story back."
"How?"
He grabbed his phone. "Lora. Get Eden a stylist. Photographer. We're doing a couple's shoot in the gardens. Today."
Eden blinked. "You want to glamorize it?"
"No," he said. "I want to weaponize it."
The shoot was a masterstroke.
Eden wore flowing white, her hair loose in the breeze. Cassian stood beside her in rolled sleeves and stormy eyes. They posed beneath arches, surrounded by roses and thorns.
Every shutter click rewrote the narrative.
By dusk, Cassian posted one of the photos to his rarely used socials.
"When the world watches, give them something worth watching."
The post exploded.
Verena—furious, cornered—posted nothing.
That night, Eden stood by the fire, staring at her reflection in the gilded mirror.
Cassian appeared behind her.
"You were incredible today," he said.
"I was furious."
"Good," he murmured. "That's when you're strongest."
She turned, voice low. "I don't want to keep pretending."
He met her eyes. "Then don't."
Silence.
Eden stepped closer. Her voice cracked.
"Kiss me. Not for them. For me."
Cassian didn't hesitate.
He kissed her like he'd waited years. Slow. Deep. Devastating.
When they pulled apart—breathless—everything had shifted.
No more pretending.
Not tonight.