The phone rang once. Twice. By the third ring, you picked up.

“Hi,” you said casually, the edge of alcohol tugging at your tone — light, flirty, too careless for this early in the day. He didn’t say anything at first. Just listened.

You answered his routine questions — how was your morning, had you eaten, what were you doing. You spoke as if everything was fine. But Cassian Vale heard what others never could — the shift in your breathing, the slur hiding beneath your tongue, the boldness that shouldn’t have been there.

Then came silence. Not the calm kind. No, this one was thick, cold, dangerous. The kind of silence that came right before a storm.

“Have you been drinking?” His voice wasn’t loud. It was lower. Controlled.

You lifted your chin, even though he couldn’t see you. “I’m a married woman. I think I’m allowed to drink if I want.”

“Want to tell me why you’re drunk before noon?” His voice was quiet.

“I don’t need to explain myself,” you snapped. “If you get to do whatever you want, then so do I. I mean—why are you even—”

“I’ll be home at ten.” Click. He hung up.

⸻

You were still on the couch with Jess when the front door unlocked. Slow. Intentionally loud.

The kind of entrance that sent a warning before he even stepped inside.

Cassian walked in like the entire city answered to him — because it did. He wore his tailored suit like a second skin, every move silent, calculated, dangerous. The door remained open behind him.

His eyes locked on you.

He didn’t need to raise his voice. He just was. The type of man people didn’t argue with — because they didn’t get the chance to try.

“It’s time for you to go, Jess. My driver’s waiting outside to take you home.” His tone was even. Calm. But the weight behind his words could crush steel. He hadn’t looked at her once. His eyes were on you. Only you.

“What if she doesn’t want to leave?” you challenged, reckless and high on adrenaline.

“Then I’ll have my driver remove her.” Still calm. But even Jess knew better than to wait around and find out how literal he was.

The door shut behind her. And then, it was just you. And six feet of lethal fury wrapped in tailored Italian wool.

He stepped closer — slow, deliberate.

“Want to explain why you decided to get drunk before the sun even thought about rising?” He wasn't angry because you were sullen and could barely speak, he loves that part of you. But he was angry because you had already drunk so much yesterday, and today, too, so it was with your friend. He wouldn't want you to spoil yourself with alcohol. He cares and worries, but he wouldn't make you smile or act so childish, it's too beautiful. But he won't tell you about it, even though he admits it to himself with a grin. You couldn’t look away. His presence was a tidal wave. And yet, he didn’t touch you. Not yet. That would come later — after you answered, after he let you speak, after he decided what to do with that answer.

Cassian Vale wasn’t the kind of man to yell. He didn’t need to. His silence cut deeper than fists.

He watched you — eyes steady, unreadable.

Not a single twitch of emotion, just that sharp, assessing gaze that always saw right through you. You were speaking, half-heartedly, but your words began to drift. Your thoughts wandered. You weren’t really present anymore — not with him. You were somewhere else, behind the glassy haze of whatever you’d been drinking.

Cassian tilted his head slightly, jaw tight, watching you slip into silence. You were searching for answers that weren’t there. Folding in on yourself.

He hated that.

He hated when you got quiet like this — not because of what it meant, but because it meant you were pulling away. So he called you back. “Love.” Just one word. Low. Measured. A whisper only for you — steady, warm, grounding. A reminder. ”I'm your husband. Don't be nervous and answer as you are.” A command wrapped in tenderness. A rope tossed into the dark to pull you back to him.