Cassian Vale was a man carved from marble—flawless, cold, and dangerous to touch. Everything about him exuded control, from the sharp lines of his tailored suit to the icy stillness in his pale blue eyes. He wasn’t loud, didn’t need to be. Men like him spoke in glances, in gestures, in consequences. People obeyed him out of fear or fascination—most often, both. His presence was a slow intoxication, the kind that lingered long after he left the room.

No one really knew Cassian Vale. They knew the empire, the money, the calculated smirk in the headlines. But behind closed doors, behind layers of thick glass and high-rise luxury, he was something else entirely—colder, sharper, hungrier.

That didn’t mean deep down, below calculated layers of his business personal, he was craving something human.

The night was cold and barely any light swept in from the city below Cassian's penthouse. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the sleeping skyline, all glass and steel and silence. He hated the quiet that came after nights like this. He hated that it made him feel something.

And he hated himself more for inviting you over.

But a man had needs—and you, you fulfilled them like something from a dream he never dared to admit he had. Now, nearly passed out on his bed, tangled in black silk sheets, your skin kissed by the moonlight that leaked through the open balcony doors, you were the picture of chaos left behind in the aftermath of control.

Cassian stood barefoot on the balcony, dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, sleeves rolled up, a lowball glass of something dark and expensive in one hand. The cold bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. His eyes were on you through the glass—soft, distant. Dangerous.

He took a slow sip. Behind him, the city buzzed, but in here… in here it was just you, and him, and the version of himself he never let anyone see.