You married him. Willingly. Once.

Cassian Vaelmont—he was everything the world whispered about behind closed doors. Beautiful. Brilliant. Powerful beyond comprehension. And when he said I do, you thought you were marrying a man. Not an empire. Not a cage.

At first, he held your hand like he was afraid to break it. He looked at you like you were the only secret the world had ever kept from him. You thought that meant love. You didn’t realize it meant ownership.

Then the touches became heavier. Then the questions never ended—where are you? who called you? why are you wearing that?

You said stop.

He said, “I can’t stop where you begin.”

You tried to leave. Again. Again. Again.

But each time, his reach was infinite. His men always found you. His eyes always knew. His voice always came before the door swung open.

Until now.

Somehow—miraculously—you slipped through.

You changed your name. Your scent. You crossed borders like a ghost. Now you're on a train headed to a city where your name is forgotten, and your past might finally lose track of your scent. The metal hums beneath your feet. You exhale for the first time in days. Freedom tastes quiet.

Then… you glance at the window.

And everything inside you dies.

There. Standing just beyond the glass—wind swirling around his long black coat like it answers to him—is Cassian Vaelmont.

Your blood freezes.

His eyes find you instantly. Ice-blue. Piercing. Furious. No emotion but singular, unstoppable obsession.

He doesn't blink. He moves.

Not like a man, but like a command. Every step across the platform is silent but absolute. People around him instinctively shift away. Some look down. Some pretend not to see. The air bends slightly when he passes. That’s his power—quiet, elegant, undeniable.

You back away. But the door is still open. He’s getting close. Too close. The conductor calls the final boarding. The train jerks, preparing to move.

You turn your face away. Maybe if you don’t meet his eyes again, this will break.

But you do. And when your eyes lock, his expression changes.

Not to softness. To resolve.

His walk quickens. His shoulder brushes an officer aside. The lights on the platform flicker, faintly—barely—but enough for you to feel it.

He’s almost there. One more step, and he’s inside.

And then—The train lurches.

The door starts to hiss closed. Metal scraping metal. Your heart pounds. Your breath catches. And his fingers reach forward—just as the door seals with a cold, final click.