The silence that followed the salon meeting filled the corridors like dust in a forgotten room. The Montclair Building, with all its chandeliers and marble confidence, echoed with the echo of something unspoken.
Cassian walked beside Céline—not Lisa at that moment, but Céline Montclair, the woman everyone had expected. Her back straight, her stride even, her face unfocused.
But inside?
"Postponed the engagement? Did you really say that?"
Her thoughts raced, though her lips remained silent.
They reached the East Wing—a private area reserved for guests and family—when Cassian finally broke the silence.
"You spoke as a member of the board," he said.
His tone wasn't mocking. On the contrary, it carried... curiosity.
Céline raised an eyebrow. "Would you have preferred me to act as a bride?"
Cassian shrugged lightly, almost imperceptibly. "I'm not sure what I prefer anymore."
They stopped in front of two tall glass doors that led to a terrace. The moonlight cast long shadows on the stone floor—a perfect place for a heart-to-heart, if either of them believed in such things.
Lisa turned to face him. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.
"This connection, this integration, this performance—you don't even flinch when your father speaks for you."
Cassian looked at her. He looked at her sincerely.
"Because some families don't give you choices. They give you roles. If you don't perform, they recast the actor."
That was it.
No anger. No sadness.
Just... truth.
Lisa averted her gaze, folding her arms so as not to embarrass herself.
"So we're just two elegant dolls dancing for the media?"
"You don't dance," he said quietly.
It made her laugh. The tension eased like a pin popping a balloon.
"And you're not kidding," she said.
Cassian's lips twitched. A smile almost crossed her face.
"I looked into Delaroche," he added. "Your mother's acquisition was strategic, but the debt she's taken on might make this connection more urgent than it made out."
Lisa's wry smile faded. "You're spying on your future mother-in-law?"
"I'm protecting my family's interests."
"Or your own?" she asked.
His silence spoke louder than any answer.
Meanwhile, in an adjacent room...
Behind closed doors, Lady Montclair stood with a man in a dark suit—the family's taciturn financial expert.
"They're too synchronized," she said quietly. "This wasn't part of the plan."
"Do you want me to slow her down?" the man asked.
She shook her head. "No. I want you to keep a close eye on her."
Then, after a pause, her voice grew sharper: "She's not my daughter."
She returned to the balcony...
Lisa leaned against the railing, staring out into the night.
"This world... all glass floors and sharp smiles. Everyone pretending they're not about to collapse."
Cassian stepped forward.
"You don't belong here, do you?"
She turned to him, her voice low. "Does it matter if I'm not you?"
There was a pause. Then he said quietly:
"Yes."
It wasn't romantic. Not yet.
But it was honest.
And in a house built on control and heritage, it was the most human thing either of them had said all night.