Chapter 8:
Paris looked different the next morning.
Not the postcard version. Not the one with glittering lights and champagne flutes.
This Paris was muted—hungover from rain, haunted by secrets.
Eden stood on the balcony wrapped in a cream silk robe, staring out at the mist over the Seine. She didn't know what to make of her feelings anymore—not just for Cassian, but for herself.
She had crossed an ocean pretending to be someone she wasn't.
So why did she feel more like herself than she had in years?
Cassian joined her, handing her an espresso. Their fingers brushed. Neither moved away.
"Did you sleep?" he asked.
"Barely."
"You're thinking about Verena."
She glanced at him. "No. I'm thinking about Zurich."
He leaned on the railing beside her. His face gave nothing away.
"I told you most of it."
"But not all of it."
"No," he admitted quietly.
"Then start now."
He looked at her, voice low. "Zurich was where I made my first mistake. I backed a biotech merger. One of their board members—someone I trusted—was under investigation. I found out too late. But I still covered it. My father said the family name mattered more than the truth."
"And Verena?"
"She leaked pieces of it after we broke up. Enough to ruin my reputation. Not enough to bury me."
Eden watched him. "And me? What am I in all this—a distraction?"
"No," Cassian said firmly. "You're my reset."
That afternoon, he took her through the winding streets of Montmartre. Tourists stared. Cameras followed. But Eden didn't feel like she was playing a role anymore.
She felt real.
They ducked into a quiet little art shop near Sacré-Cœur. Eden ran her fingers across charcoal sketches and oil paintings, smiling softly.
"Pick one," Cassian said.
She shook her head. "You don't need to buy me anything."
"I'm not buying it for you," he said. "I'm buying it for the woman I'm falling for."
Eden froze. "Cassian…"
"I know what I said. No lines. No feelings. But somewhere between your laugh and the way you challenge me—I crossed the line. Willingly."
Her heart pounded. "This is dangerous."
"So is denying it."
That night, they were invited to a masked ball.
The invitation was sealed in wax, written in gold ink. Pure old money.
"They expect us to be a spectacle," Cassian said.
Eden smirked. "Then let's give them one."
The ballroom was breathtaking—black and gold, lit by dripping candles. A string quartet played something soft and haunting. Everyone wore masks. Feathers. Sequins. Shadows.
Eden wore black lace that hugged her like midnight. Cassian wore a tailored suit and a silver mask that made him look like a stranger she somehow already knew.
They danced close. Too close. The world faded around them.
Until—
"Eden."
She turned.
A man in a white mask stood behind her, tall and sharp-eyed. "We need to talk. Alone."
Cassian stepped between them. "She's with me."
The man smirked. "But does she know who you really are?"
Cassian tensed.
Eden's grip tightened on his arm. "Cassian... who is he?"
The man removed his mask.
Eden's breath caught. "Noah?"
Her ex. The one who left without warning. The one who said she wasn't meant for dreams.
Cassian's voice was low. Dangerous. "What are you doing here?"
Noah didn't flinch. "Saving her."
Eden shook her head. "I don't need saving."
Noah's smile faded. "He's using you, Eden. The press. The relationship. It's all a lie."
"I know," she said calmly. "But some lies feel more real than the truth ever did with you."
Noah blinked. Wounded. Then he vanished into the crowd.
Cassian turned to her. "Are you okay?"
"I think so," she whispered. "But that... wasn't nothing."
"No," he said. "It was your past. And I won't let it take you back."
Later, back in the suite, Eden sat at the edge of the bed. Her heels lay discarded. Her dress pooled around her like shadow and silk.
Cassian knelt in front of her.
"I don't want to pretend anymore," he said. "I want this to be real. But only if you want it too."
Eden's breath caught.
"Then say it's not a game," she whispered. "Swear it."
He took her hand and placed it over his heart.
"No games. No masks. Just us."
Her lips trembled.
She leaned in.
He met her halfway.
The kiss wasn't for the press.
It wasn't for the cameras.
It was for them.
And Eden knew—whatever came next—she couldn't walk away.
Not anymore.