His To Claim

Cassian Wolfe didn’t get rattled.

He made billion-dollar decisions before breakfast. Signed off on mergers that gutted empires. He walked through his world like a king in a city built to kneel.

But that morning, as the glass elevator carried him to the top floor of Wolfe Enterprises, the silk ring of her perfume still clung to the inside of his jacket—and it bothered him.

He didn’t know her name.

Didn’t know where she went.

Didn’t even know if Zara was real.

But he remembered the way she said it, cool and offhand, like she’d done this before—like disappearing was a habit, not a trick.

The elevator doors opened into glass and gold.

His assistant, Leona Vixon, stood at her desk, typing at speeds that suggested someone had already pissed her off.

She looked up.

Paused.

“You look like you committed murder in a tux,” she said without missing a beat.

Cassian didn’t answer. He walked past her, tossing his jacket onto the back of the nearest leather chair.

“I need you to find someone,” he said.

Leona arched a brow. “Romantic entanglement, corporate threat, or personal vendetta?”

“Yes.”

She sighed, following him inside. “You’re in rare form.”

“I need guest list access from last night’s gala. Cross-check with security footage. There was a woman—wine-red silk, black hair, around five-six. She left early.”

Leona’s fingers paused over her phone. “You brought a stranger home?”

“I didn’t bring her anywhere. She brought herself.”

“Well, that’s ominous.” Leona tilted her head. “What do I call this file? ‘Femme Fatale’?”

“Call it what you want,” he said, sliding behind his desk. “Just find her.”

Leona watched him for a moment. “This about your father’s charity deal? Because if you’re spiraling again—”

“She stole from me.”

That made her pause.

Leona’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“My grandfather’s pocket watch. Gone.”

For the first time, she looked genuinely surprised.

“You think it was a setup?”

“I think she played me.”

Leona let out a low whistle. “Damn. She must’ve been good.”

Cassian didn’t respond. He was staring at his phone, the screen blank, her name unsaved.

No name.

No number.

No leverage.

He hated it.

“I’ll see what I can dig up,” Leona said, stepping out. “But just a heads up—ghosts are hard to track.”

“She wasn’t a ghost,” he muttered.

But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure he believed it.

The woman from last night wasn’t just someone passing through.

She’d taken something far more valuable than the watch.

She’d taken control.

And Cassian Wolfe didn’t lose control.

Not to anyone.

The apartment smelled like printer toner, fake Chanel, and burnt toast.

Zara stood barefoot in front of the mirror, tugging the zipper of her newest silk blouse with one hand while Emilio paced behind her, laptop open, balancing on a teetering stack of forged banking files and birth certificates.

“Okay,” he said, typing with one hand and pouring cereal with the other, “our fabricated trust fund is now ‘active’ with $4.2 million of not-real dollars backed by five equally not-real holding companies. Your new financial advisor? Also fake. But the website is stunning.”

“Don’t forget to upload the photos of me in Monaco,” Zara said absently, smoothing her hair into a bun sleek enough to murder someone with.

“Done. And I added a blurry one where you're wearing sunglasses and looking off a yacht deck like you just told someone to drown themselves.”

“Perfect. She’d absolutely do that.”

He grinned. “You’re officially a legend.”

Zara didn’t respond. She was staring at her reflection—specifically at the small bruise beneath her collarbone.

She touched it once, then let her hand drop.

“You’re quiet,” Emilio said, turning around. “Is it nerves or something worse?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Liar. You’re spiraling. I know the difference. Your left eye does that twitch thing when you spiral.”

“I am not spiraling.”

“You slept weird, didn’t you? You never wear your bun this tight unless something’s off.”

“Nothing’s off.”

He crossed his arms, skeptical. “You’ve got that look. The ‘I did something reckless and I’m trying to emotionally blackmail myself into pretending it didn’t happen’ look.”

Zara turned to him. “You give my facial expressions too much credit.”

He studied her face for another second.

Then: “Okay. Hypothetically… you didn’t just disappear in the middle of the night and do something impulsive like, say, hook up with someone dangerous.”

She froze.

Emilio blinked. “No.”

Zara said nothing.

“Oh my God,” he hissed. “Z.”

“It wasn’t planned.”

“Who?”

She hesitated. “He was at the party.”

“You told me not to touch anyone at that party. You practically slapped a flute out of my hand because it wasn’t sealed.”

“I was careful.”

“You were stupid.”

“It was just one night.”

Emilio gave her a hard look. “Was he rich?”

“Obviously.”

“Was he married?”

“No.”

“Was he someone we’ll never see again?”

She opened her mouth—then closed it.

That was all he needed.

“Oh no,” Emilio said, dropping his cereal. “Oh no no no—who was it?”

Zara ran a hand over her face.

Then, quietly: “Cassian Wolfe.”

Dead silence.

The only sound was the soft clink of the spoon hitting the floor.

“You… slept with Cassian Wolfe?” Emilio asked, voice thin with disbelief.

“I didn’t know who he was at the time.”

“He’s literally the face of every Forbes spread in the tri-state area. He’s got his own cologne.”

“He wasn’t wearing it.”

“I cannot believe you.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Emilio paced in a wide, angry circle. “Do you realize what this means? You’re about to walk into Wolfe Enterprises as a fake heiress and seduce intel out of the man who literally owns it—and also maybe still has your underwear?”

Zara winced. “He doesn't have—”

“Z!”

“I panicked, okay?” she snapped. “I didn’t plan to sleep with the CEO of the company tied to my mother’s death. It just happened.”

“Well,” Emilio muttered, “now we have a new rule.”

“No more one-night stands with billionaires?”

“No more one-night stands with billionaires who might accidentally recognize you while you’re committing corporate espionage!”

Zara walked to the small table and picked up the forged Moretti dossier, flipping it open.

“Too late,” she said. “I already sent in the proposal.”

Emilio stared. “You what?”

She looked up.

And smiled.

Wolfe Enterprises' 38th-floor boardroom was all white leather, black marble, and cold power. The kind of space built to intimidate. No clutter, no color, no mercy.

Cassian sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled, face unreadable as Leona briefed the room.

“Our next file,” she said, placing a folder in front of him, “is from Moretti Holdings.”

The name tugged something deep in his chest.

He flipped the file open and stopped.

The photo clipped to the top corner was in high resolution. Better lighting. Better clothes.

But it was her.

Zara.

Hair pulled back. Perfect posture. A wine-red lipstick he recognized far too well.

The name printed beneath the image: Zara Moretti, Principal Stakeholder, Moretti Holdings Group.

For a half-second, the room narrowed.

So this was her move.

She hadn’t run.

She’d walked straight into the lion’s den—and dressed like the one who owned it.

“She’s requested a private pitch,” Leona added. “One-on-one. Her firm’s discretion clause requires tight confidentiality.”

Cassian closed the file and looked up slowly.

“One-on-one?”

Leona nodded. “She said she prefers to negotiate directly with power.”

Of course she did.

Cassian stood. “Schedule it. And clear the floor when she arrives.”

Leona hesitated. “Sir, we usually require—”

“She’s not usual.”

He walked out before she could ask questions. His pulse was steady, but only because he made it be.

In the elevator, alone, he let himself smile. Just slightly.

She came to him.

He didn’t need to chase her anymore.

Now?

She would stay exactly where he wanted her.

One hour later.

The door opened.

She stepped in like she’d been here a thousand times.

Tailored black pants. A sleeveless silk blouse tucked just so. Hair slicked back. Heels like a quiet threat.

Zara Moretti.

Cassian didn’t rise.

He watched her walk the full length of the boardroom table—each step deliberate, slow, confident. She stopped across from him. Didn’t extend her hand.

“Mr. Wolfe,” she said smoothly. “Thank you for the meeting.”

He tilted his head. “You’re hard to forget.”

“I get that a lot.”

“No,” he said. “You don’t.”

Her lips twitched.

She sat.

Their eyes locked across the table.

He could see it in her—the effort to appear calm, unfazed. The shield was up. But he knew better now. He’d seen her without it. Heard her breath catch when she let go. Tasted the truth on her skin.

She was lying again.

And he was going to let her.

For now.

“I reviewed your proposal,” he said, opening her folder with lazy interest. “Looks clean. Impressive, even.”

“Thank you. I like my lies to be tidy.”

He looked up. “You’re not even trying to deny it?”

She smiled. “If I were lying.”

He nodded, smirking faintly. “Right.”

A long silence settled. Tense. Charged.

Finally, Cassian slid the file aside and leaned back.

“I’m not interested in a partnership.”

Her expression didn’t falter. “Then why take the meeting?”

“I’m offering you a job.”

She blinked.

He smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

“Executive assistant. High compensation. Full access. Proximity guaranteed.”

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