I Don't Love You Like I Did Yesterday

Cassian exhaled sharply, his anger fading into something colder. He released his grip on my jaw, his voice steady but firm.

“You took things too far today. Take time to cool off. Don't let it happen again.”

He stepped toward the door but paused just before closing it behind him.

“Before I forgot,” he added. “The engagement is set. On the 10th of next month, Sloane and I will be officially engaged. My parents have agreed.”

His next words were casual, almost indifferent. “So, behave yourself. Try not to upset Sloane.”

Then he was gone. The door clicked shut, sealing me inside a silence so thick it felt suffocating.

I bit my lip hard, willing myself not to break down. Not to cry.

How did it come to this?

The boy I had once worshiped like a God—how had he become this stranger?

I had believed that after Sloane left, he had finally seen me. I thought he had wanted me. I thought all those years of Mrs. Montclair grooming me, refining me, had been in preparation for a future as his wife.

But it had all been a lie.

Cassian’s heart had never held a place for me. It had only ever belonged to Sloane.

He had been born with everything: wealth, status, the best education. He was destined for business, but when it came time to choose a major, he had gone to art school.

Because Sloane loved painting.

I had followed a year later, enrolling in sculpture. I told myself it was my passion, that I had made the choice for myself, but deep down, I knew better.

I just wanted to be closer to him.

I still remembered the nights he’d take me for drives, the wind rushing past as he recklessly sped through the city. On those rare, unguarded nights, he had promised me—

“One day, Pixie, I’ll paint you. I’ll make sure it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever created.”

And I had promised him a sculpture in return.

Over the years, I had filled his bedroom with my work. Tiny statues, detailed carvings—all silent testaments to the love I could never voice.

And yet, he had never once painted me.

He had told me, back when he first took over the family business, he was too exhausted to paint. He didn’t have the energy, the inspiration. That had been a lie too. Because the moment Sloane returned, Cassian had locked himself away in his private studio, painting her. Again and again. Larger than life, canvases filled with her face, her body, her presence.

If those paintings were a slap in the face, then the past few days had been a blade through my heart.

Sloane offering herself to him and Cassian taking her without hesitation. He had traced her body like she was the only muse he had ever known, while I—I was just the fool who had once believed in his empty words. I no longer cared who was right or wrong in this twisted arrangement. I simply couldn’t do it anymore.

I needed to leave. But where?

A sharp chime from my phone pulled me out of my thoughts. It was a notification from Mrs. Montclair’s private number. I hesitated before clicking it open.

[Livia, I assume you've heard. Cassian is getting engaged.]

[You’ve always known your place, but I also know that Cassian has feelings for you. And I refuse to let you become a stain on his future.]

[We have taken care of you all these years. Despite everything, I have not been unkind.]

[The Kensingtons took a major hit when Cassian snatched their deal. As a show of goodwill, they proposed a marriage alliance.]

[As our adopted daughter, we are offering you in marriage to represent the Montclair Family. We raised you and provided for you. I hope you will take the role and accept it.]

[But I’ll give you time think it through. Give me your answer ASAP]

I stared at the screen, my breath catching in my throat. A laugh bubbled up from my throat—cold, bitter and utterly devoid of humor.

So this was how it was. 

And to think, I once believed that Mrs. Montclair had taken me under her wing out of kindness. I, a fresh college graduate—what did I do to deserve such an honor?

That a woman of such high standing had lowered herself to teach a girl from the low background.

Mrs. Montclair had never taken me in out of kindness. She had never trained me to be Cassian's future wife. I was a tool. A bargaining chip. A leash meant to keep Cassian in line until he was strong enough to take the world on his own. And now, with him at the top, I was nothing more than an inconvenience. A liability.

All those years of devotion, of chasing after the ghost of a boy who never truly saw me—all for what? To be tossed aside like a used rag.

The debt of my life, the so-called kindness of their care—both had become a knife hanging round my neck. 

I had no choice. No place escape. No right to refuse.