Sleep came like a thief—silent, sudden, stealing the terror from my bones. One moment I was counting the moonlit stripes on the floor, praying Cassian wouldn't cross the threshold. The next, darkness swallowed me whole.
I woke to stillness.
Not the gentle hush of dawn, but the loaded silence of a room that had been watched. My eyes flew open.
Cassian Drevane stood at the foot of the bed.
Moonlight carved him from shadow—sharp jaw, storm-gray eyes, the platinum wig dangling from his fingers like a dead thing. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched me with the stillness of a predator who'd cornered its prey.
He's been here the whole time. The realization hit like ice water. While I prayed. While I pretended to sleep. While I begged him to stay away.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I didn't flinch. Amara Veyron doesn't crumble. I pushed myself up slowly, the cotton nightgown clinging to my damp skin. Selene would whimper. Amara calculates.
"Looking for this?" Cassian's voice was low, rough as unpolished stone. He dangled the wig, its roots exposed: dark as midnight bleeding into ashy gold. The map of my lies, held like evidence.
I forced Selene's vacant smile—the one that felt like glass shards in my throat. "I must have dropped it—"
"Don't." He cut me off with a single word, sharp as a scalpel. He stepped closer, the wig still swinging from his grip. Moonlight caught the scar on his wrist—a thin silver line, mirroring mine. A restorer's mark. Like Mama's.
My breath hitched. He knows books. He knows scars.
Cassian stopped inches from the bed. His gaze dropped to my bare wrist—the scar visible in the moonlight. Then back to my face. "You flinched when Grandma mentioned miscarriages at the reception," he said, voice dangerously soft. "Selene Veyron wouldn't care about miscarriages. She'd care about the caviar."
The foie gras swans. I'd frozen when Grandma said "Three miscarriages!"—not from fear of weak chins, but from the memory of Mama's miscarriage before she died. A secret only my family knew.
Cassian leaned down, his breath warm against my ear. "You corrected my assistant's translation of virtù on the jet. Selene thinks Machiavelli wrote Twilight." His thumb brushed my wrist, tracing the scar. "And this? This is the mark of a woman who's spent her life with vellum and ink. Not yacht parties."
He's been cataloging my mistakes. The room tilted. Every slip. Every scar. Every breath.
I locked my knees, forcing Selene's airy tone. "I don't know what you mean, Cassian. I'm tired. It's been a long—"
"Liar." The word wasn't shouted. It was placed, precise as a scalpel in the dark. He straightened, holding up the wig. "This isn't Selene's hair. It's yours. Bleached. Burned. Erased." His storm-gray eyes pinned me. "Who are you?"
Silence stretched, thick as the Orada's midnight tide. The library. Mama's books. Marcella's threat. The words choked me: "Your mother's library—sold off, piece by piece."
Then Cassian did the unthinkable.
He dropped the wig onto the bed.
Not in anger. In surrender.
"I knew," he said, the admission raw. "From the moment you stepped off the jet."
What? My pulse roared in my ears. He knew?
"You corrected virtù," he repeated, pacing now—a caged storm. "You didn't simper. You didn't beg. You saw me." He stopped, hands braced on the bed frame. "Selene would have fainted at the sight of this villa. But you? You dragged your suitcase up the steps like a soldier going to war."
He's testing me. The thought cut through the panic. He wants me to crack.
I smoothed the sheet over my knees, the cotton cool against my trembling fingers. Amara Veyron doesn't beg. She trades. "If you knew," I asked, voice steady as Selene's vacant smile, "why marry me?"
Cassian's laugh was a low, broken thing. "Because I needed her." He jerked his head toward the wig. "The blonde. The legacy. The trust amendment." He met my eyes, raw honesty stripping him bare. "Grandma gave me 72 hours to produce a blonde heir or lose control of the Drevane Trust. I bought Selene Veyron." His gaze dropped to my scar again. "I got you instead."
The trust. The deadline. Tuesday.
He hadn't married a woman. He'd bought a solution.
And I was the wrong answer.
The room blurred. Mama's library. Sold for scrap. My fault. I pressed my palm flat against the mattress, grounding myself. Think. What does he want?
Cassian sank into the chair beside the bed, suddenly weary. "I thought you were Selene's accomplice," he admitted. "A cousin. A friend. Sent to sabotage me." He ran a hand over his face. "But you didn't sabotage me. You saved me."
Saved him?
"At the wedding," he said, "when Grandma demanded we leave for the Riviera tonight—"
"—to conceive heirs before Tuesday," I finished quietly.
He stilled. "You speak French."
I didn't deny it. The library is already lost. Let the pieces fall.
Cassian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "When Grandma said 'healthy brides conceive faster,' you didn't flinch at miscarriages. You flinched at 'conceive.' Like it was a threat." His voice dropped. "Because it is a threat. Isn't it?"
He sees it. The truth crashed over me—he sees the cage.
"You didn't come to this room last night," I whispered.
"I watched you sleep." The admission hung in the air. "You prayed so quietly I almost missed it." His eyes burned. "'Don't come to this room tonight.' You weren't praying for love. You were praying for time."
Time until Tuesday. Time until the trust amendment expired. Time until the library was safe.
Cassian stood, towering over me. "Who are you?" he demanded again, but this time it wasn't an accusation. It was a plea. "Why would you do this? Bleach your hair? Steal your sister's life? Risk everything?"
The library. The words burned my throat. Mama's books. Her life. But saying it would doom them.
So I did what Amara Veyron does best.
I lied.
"I wanted his money," I said, channeling Selene's greed. "I wanted your money. Selene didn't want you. So I took her place."
Cassian's jaw tightened. "Liar."
I held his gaze, Selene's vacant smile locked in place. "Believe what you want. But if you expose me, the trust amendment fails. You lose control of the Drevane Trust. And I lose… everything."
The library. The unspoken words hung between us.
For a heartbeat, Cassian studied me—the scar, the roots, the lie in my eyes. Then he did something that shattered me.
He reached out.
Not for the wig. Not for my throat.
For my hand.
His thumb traced the scar on my wrist—rough, deliberate, reverent. The same way Mama's hands had guided mine over vellum.
"You're not her," he murmured, voice thick with something like awe. "But you're not a liar either."
He released my hand, stepping back. "Midnight Wednesday," he said, the words a vow. "The trust amendment expires at noon. Until then?" He gestured to the wig on the bed. "Keep playing Selene."
He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "But stop pretending to be less." His storm-gray eyes held mine. "You're playing with fire."
Then he was gone.
I sat frozen, the ghost of his touch burning on my wrist. He knows I'm not Selene. But he doesn't know I'm Amara.
And he gave me until Wednesday.
I picked up the wig—the lie I'd worn for twelve days—and held it to the moonlight. Dark roots bled through the ashy gold like truth through silence.
You're not a liar either. His words echoed. But you're not her.
I placed the wig on the vanity.
Next to it, I laid my hand—palm up, scar exposed.
Who am I?
The quiet librarian?
The proxy bride?
The girl who bleached her soul to save a library?