The room was still. Still enough to hear her own breath, the faint hum of city lights bleeding through the thick penthouse glass. The only sound was the slow, deliberate click of her heels against marble—sharp, echoing.
Rose stood by the window. Not her place. Cassian's.
Milan glittered below, spread out like spilled diamonds and broken glass. Beautiful. Cold. Pretending to shine like gold while hiding all its rot. Just like the people who owned it. Who ran it. Who ruined it.
She didn't turn when she heard the door close softly behind her. Didn't flinch when the click sounded behind her like a secret being locked away.
"You're early," she said. Her voice was flat. Icy.
Cassian tossed his phone onto the couch. The soft thud of it landing didn't cut the tension between them. He slipped off his blazer and let it hang on the edge of a chair like he didn't care. But he cared. Always did. Too much.
"Couldn't sleep," he muttered.
She didn't look at him. Just kept staring out the glass.
"Guilt keeping you up?" she asked, half-turning her head, tone sharp enough to cut.
He stiffened. Jaw clenched, nostrils flared just a little. "Is that what you think of me?"
She turned slowly now, finally. Not with drama, but with purpose. Like a knife being pulled from a sheath. Her eyes met his under the dim chandelier glow. Unblinking. Calm. Dangerous.
"I don't think of you at all, Cassian."
Lie.
And they both knew it.
He stepped forward, careful, like she might vanish if he got too close. Like her silence might detonate.
"That night—after the fundraiser," he said, voice low. "You looked at me like I was the only real thing in the room."
"I was acting."
"Don't."
One word, said softly—but it landed heavy. His voice held weight now. Unpolished. Real. Like he was peeling skin off himself just to reach her.
"You don't have to lie. Not with me. Not when it's just the two of us. No masks, Rose. No aliases. Just you."
She inhaled. Sharp. Like glass cutting the inside of her chest.
"You think you know me?" she asked, almost laughing. "You don't. You saw a broken girl bleeding in an alley five years ago and now you think you've earned the right to fix her?"
"No." He stepped closer. Now they were inches apart.
"I saw someone who lit a match and didn't flinch while her past burned down. Someone who built a damn cage from the ashes and locked herself inside it. I'm not here to fix you. I just want in. I just want to be inside that fire without getting pushed out."
Her chest tightened.
Damn him.
He always knew exactly what to say. Always found the cracks.
She turned again, walking away before she did something stupid. The bar waited in the corner, cold and sleek. She needed something chilled. Something strong enough to drown the warmth creeping up her throat.
"I leaked Lorenzo's shell company ledger today," she said casually, pouring herself a drink like it was coffee and not war.
"The one tied to the Geneva accounts?"
She nodded once.
Cassian let out a low whistle. "That's gonna leave a mark."
"It already has," she said, sipping the drink. No flinch. Just ice and steel. "His offshore assets are frozen. Investors are panicking. And guess who's about to swoop in with a buyout proposal through a third party?"
He blinked. Then he grinned. One of those slow, crooked smiles that made women forget their names.
"You."
"Killian's shell company, technically. But yes. Me."
Cassian leaned against the bar, watching her like she was some wild, holy thing. "You're playing a dangerous game."
"Good," she said. "I was getting bored."
He chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Not even close. "Lorenzo's not stupid, Rose. Once he starts putting pieces together—"
"He won't," she cut him off fast. "He's too emotional. Too paranoid. He thinks Federico is behind everything."
Cassian's smile faded. "He's not entirely wrong. Federico's been circling like a shark. Smells blood in the water."
"Let him," Rose said, swirling her drink. "He's a good distraction."
Cassian watched her longer this time. Like he was trying to see the parts of her she kept hidden in shadows.
"And me?" he asked finally. "What am I?"
The question hung in the air. She paused, lips barely touching her glass.
Then she set it down, her voice quiet. Honest. Cruel.
"A complication."
He didn't move. Didn't speak. But his eyes—those sharp, burning eyes—dimmed just a little.
He stepped forward, slow and silent, like the world had slowed down just for them. He took the glass from her hand. Set it aside.
Then he reached up and cupped her face.
"You don't have to do this alone," he said.
She looked at him. Every inch of her screamed to lean in. To believe. To fall.
But belief was a luxury she buried five years ago.
"I'm not alone," she whispered. "I just don't trust easily."
"Then let me earn it."
She almost said yes.
Almost.
But then—
Buzz.
The burner phone on the counter vibrated.
She pulled away from him, walked over, picked it up.
Unknown Number: They found Anna. She's alive. But barely.
Her heart stopped.
She stared at the message like it might disappear if she blinked.
Then she turned, fast. "Lorenzo's men got to Anna."
Cassian's expression darkened. "Where?"
"Outside Rome. I've got the location."
"I'm coming with you."
"No." She was already moving. Pulling on her coat, grabbing keys. "This is mine to clean."
"Rose—"
She stopped at the door and looked back. "You want to help? Keep Federico busy. He's plotting behind Lorenzo's back. Stall him."
He didn't argue. Just crossed the space between them and kissed her. Hard. Quick. Like goodbye.
And then she was gone.
---
The safehouse sat deep in the countryside, cloaked in the shadows of olive trees and overgrown vines. Looked like an old vineyard from the outside—abandoned, forgotten.
Marcello stood outside, pacing like a man about to explode. His fists were bruised. Red. He didn't stop when she pulled up.
"She's inside," he said, voice tight. "Alive. But bad."
Rose walked past him without another word.
Inside, Anna lay on a low cot. Face swollen. One eye shut. Lips cracked. But breathing.
When she saw Rose, she tried to smile.
"You're real," she whispered. "I thought… I was hallucinating."
"Of course I'm real."
Anna's hand reached out, trembling. "They wanted everything. About you. About Killian. About the ledger. I didn't tell them. I didn't break. I swear."
"I know," Rose said, sinking to her knees beside the cot.
Tears filled Anna's good eye. "He's going to kill me."
"No," Rose said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her friend's face. "He won't."
Because she would kill him first.
---
Later that night, Rose stood outside the safehouse, staring at the endless dark. Olive trees stretched out like shadows of soldiers.
Marcello joined her, cigarette between his lips. He didn't offer her one. She wouldn't have taken it anyway.
"You okay?" he asked.
"No."
"You're doing the right thing."
"I don't know what that is anymore."
He blew out smoke. "So what now?"
Rose's voice was low. Cold. Steady.
"I'm going to give Lorenzo something he can't ignore."
Marcello looked at her sideways. "You mean besides torching his finances and pinning it on his own brother?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then—
"I'm crashing his anniversary gala."
Marcello blinked. "The one he's throwing in your memory?"
She nodded. A bitter curve pulling at her lips.
"To celebrate five years since my death," she said.
Marcello let out a slow whistle. "You really are a ghost."
"No."
She looked out at the darkness, eyes glowing with fire.
"I'm the flame that burns the ghosts away."