Cassandra didn't scream. She didn't cry.
She didn't even blink as she stared at the video of Lena tied to a chair, Miranda's voice echoing through the speakers like a loaded gun.
Instead, she closed the laptop, walked to the bathroom door, and knocked once.
Julian opened it, towel slung low on his hips, water glistening on his skin — but the look on her face froze him mid-breath.
"She took her," Cassandra said.
His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean—?"
"Miranda. She has Lena."
She handed him the USB. "And she wants me. Alone."
Julian's face twisted into something she had never seen before: fury wrapped in fear.
"Over my dead body."
"Exactly," Cassandra said coolly. "That's why I'm not telling you where I'm going."
★★★★★
That Night — Location Unknown
Cassandra arrived alone.
Black jeans, black boots, no makeup — just fury, fire, and the kind of ice a woman wears when she's already burned everything else.
The abandoned estate in upstate New York loomed like a haunted castle, snow flurrying all around. Her breath fogged in the cold as she stepped through the iron gate.
"Miranda!" she called, voice slicing through the dark. "You wanted me, I'm here!"
The doors creaked open.
Miranda stood in the foyer, dressed in white.
"You came. Just like I knew you would."
"Where is she?" Cassandra demanded.
Miranda smirked. "In the study. Unharmed. For now."
Cassandra's fists clenched. "Let her go."
"Not yet." Miranda circled her. "First, we talk."
"What do you want?"
Miranda's smile faltered, eyes flickering with old wounds. "I want my life back."
"You want Julian."
"I want everything you took. My power. My respect. My empire."
"You lost that yourself," Cassandra snapped. "You buried yourself in bitterness. Now you want to drag a child into your vendetta?"
Miranda's hand shook slightly. "She's my daughter."
"No, she's Lena. A little girl. She's not your leverage."
"Wrong again," Miranda hissed. "She's the only thing keeping me alive."
That's when Cassandra saw it — the twitch in Miranda's fingers. The desperation behind the fire. She wasn't just mad.
She was unraveling.
★★★★★
Outside — Minutes Later
Julian stood in the snow, dressed in black, gun tucked beneath his coat, fury in his blood.
He hadn't followed Cassandra.
He'd tracked her.
Because she didn't get to fight this war alone.
Not when he had something to lose too.
His daughter.
His wife.
★★★★★
Inside the Study
Cassandra found Lena sitting quietly on a velvet couch, hands free now, eyes wide but brave.
"Are you okay, baby?" she asked, rushing to her.
Lena nodded. "She said you'd save me."
Cassandra choked back emotion. "She was right."
But just as she turned to leave—Miranda was standing in the doorway, holding the gun.
"I said no one leaves."
★★★★★
Gunfire cracked.
Julian dove through the second door, tackled Miranda to the floor, the weapon skidding across the room.
"Don't you dare point that at them," he growled, pinning her down.
Cassandra grabbed Lena and shielded her behind the sofa, heart racing.
"Julian!"
But Miranda just laughed, tears streaking her cheeks.
"You always protect what's yours… but what about me? I was yours too."
Julian's face twisted with regret. "No. You were a chapter. This? This is the rest of the book."
He stood, eyes burning. "You're finished, Miranda."
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Backup. Finally.
★★★★★
Two Hours Later – NYPD Custody
Miranda sat in the back of the squad car, hair messy, mascara smudged. But her smile remained.
"She'll never love you without wondering what else you've hidden," she told Julian before they shut the door.
Cassandra stepped forward, eyes cold.
"She already does. And trust me — I'll know every crack in him, and love him harder because of it."
Julian's hand gripped hers. "Let's go home."
★★★★★
Back at the Penthouse
Julian tucked Lena into the guest room with cocoa, cartoons, and promises of tomorrow.
Then he returned to Cassandra.
She was curled on the couch, sipping tea, eyes soft with everything they'd been through.
"You scared me," he said quietly.
She looked up. "You scare me every time you lie to protect me."
He dropped to his knees in front of her. "No more lies. No more secrets."
She set her tea down. "Say it again."
He took her hands.
"I love you."
She kissed him — not rushed, not desperate — but real.
And this time, when they made love, it was slow. Sacred. A promise written in moans and soft whispers and the safety of finally, finally, telling the truth.