Chapter 85

Chapter 85

Cassandra pov

Laughter.

That sound—his laughter—used to mean something to me. It was rare, like catching a shooting star or blood on snow. Sacred. Priceless.

Now?

Now it was my personal hell soundtrack.

I stood in the hallway just past the courtyard arch, hidden by the thick shadow of the stone pillar, watching them.

Lyra and Vincenzo.

She was barefoot, legs crossed on the garden bench like she owned the place, and he was beside her, leaning back with that stupid half-smile he reserved for the people he let get close. And she was close. Too close. Her hand was on his arm. Her stupid little laugh floated through the air like perfume gone rancid.

He laughed with her.

He didn’t laugh with me.

He barely looked at me anymore.

I wasn’t invisible—I was wallpaper. Present but ignored, decorating the edges of his life while she became the centerpiece.

I wanted to scratch her eyes out.

Instead, I smiled.

Because women like me don’t throw tantrums—we draw blood. Subtle. Clean. Pretty, even.

I turned on my heel and stalked to my room, my thoughts loud, my heart louder. It was always like this. Ever since she got here, it was always her. Like she was the sun, and we were just satellites orbiting her gravity.

But I knew better.

Vincenzo didn’t need light. He needed shadow. He needed someone who understood silence and survival. Not someone who cried when the world didn’t hug her back.

I slammed my door shut and went straight to my vanity. The little silver razor I kept in my makeup drawer glinted under the light.

Now, before you judge—don’t. I don’t cut to feel. I cut to remind.

To remind him.

I made a sharp slice across my thigh. Clean. Deep enough to bleed, not deep enough to scar. I didn’t wince. Pain didn’t scare me. Irrelevance did.

Blood pooled, warm and obedient. I pressed a towel to it and counted. One. Two. Three.

Perfect.

Then I walked.

Not limped—walked. Like it didn’t matter. Like I hadn’t just carved open my skin for attention.

By the time I reached the courtyard again, I’d dabbed just enough blood down my shin to stain the pale silk of my dress. Artfully. Accidentally. Like a tragedy dressed in couture.

I waited until they were mid-laughter again—Vincenzo leaning in, Lyra tossing her head back—and then I made my entrance.

“Vincenzo?”

His head whipped around instantly. Of course it did.

Lyra turned too, her smile faltering when she saw me. I smiled back—tight, sweet, venomous.

“Oh my God,” Lyra said, standing up. “Cassandra, you’re—”

“I’m fine,” I said, even as my knees buckled.

Vincenzo was already moving. “What the hell happened?”

I let myself fall into him, just enough to feel his arms around me. Just enough for her to see.

“I slipped,” I whispered, voice trembling. “In the hallway. I didn’t want to bother anyone, but…”

His grip tightened. “Jesus, Cassandra, you’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Lyra muttered.

I turned my head toward her, lashes lowered. “Sorry to interrupt your… garden giggles.”

Vincenzo ignored the tension. Of course he did. Men like him only see blood. They don’t see motive.

He scooped me up like I weighed nothing and started toward the house.

“I can walk,” I murmured.

“You’re not walking on that leg,” he snapped, already pissed. Not at me, of course. At the invisible villain in his head. The one who hurt the poor, delicate girl with blood running down her calf.

I smiled into his shoulder.

Lyra followed like a stray dog, barefoot and bristling. “She needs stitches.”

“Ya think?” I said, voice airy. “I was hoping a kiss would do it.”

Vincenzo’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing.

I win.

In the living room, he laid me gently on the sofa, barking for someone to grab the med kit. His voice was sharp. Protective. Mine.

Lyra hovered near the fireplace like an afterthought. Unwanted. Good.

“She needs a doctor,” she said again.

“I am a doctor,” I said sweetly. “I mean, not legally. But I’ve watched a lot of Grey’s Anatomy.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Not trying to be. Just naturally charming.”

“Enough,” Vincenzo growled.

He knelt beside me, hands steady as he cut the hem of my dress to expose the wound. His touch was careful. Reverent.

I looked down at him, every breath calculated. “You always take such good care of me.”

His eyes flicked up—just for a second. Then back to the cut. “You shouldn’t be walking around barefoot.”

“She’s not barefoot,” Lyra snapped. “I am.”

He didn’t look at her. God, it felt good.

“She’s jealous,” I whispered, loud enough for her to hear.

“Cassandra—” he warned.

“What?” I blinked innocently. “I’m just saying. She’s glaring like I stole her puppy.”

“You’re not bleeding because you slipped,” Lyra said flatly. “You did this on purpose.”

Oh, finally, the claws come out.

I sat up slightly, wincing for effect. “That’s a bold accusation.”

“It’s not an accusation if it’s true.”

Vincenzo stood, the gauze still in his hand. “That’s enough. Both of you.”

But his eyes flicked to me. Searching.

And I smiled, soft and wounded. “You think I’d hurt myself just for you to notice me?”

Silence.

That was all the answer I needed.

I turned my head, letting my hair curtain my face. “Wow. Okay.”

“Cassandra—”

“No, it’s fine,” I whispered. “She’s right. I’m a liar. A manipulator. A problem, right? Isn’t that what Claire said too?”

His jaw clenched.

Bingo.

Lyra stepped forward. “I don’t care what Claire said. I care that you’re hurting yourself for pity.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Vincenzo snapped. The words were automatic.

And they hurt her. I saw it. Saw the way her shoulders flinched, the way her face cracked just slightly.

Good.

“I’m just trying to help,” she said, voice smaller.

“Then help by being quiet,” I said gently. “This is between me and Vincenzo.”

He bandaged my leg in silence, his hands more rigid now. But still there.

I leaned into the moment, into the intimacy. He cared. That was all I needed.

“I didn’t mean to make things complicated,” I whispered. “I just… I miss the way things used to be. Before she came.”

“Cassandra,” he murmured, finishing the wrap.

I caught his hand. “You used to look at me like I mattered.”

“You do matter.”

“To her?” I asked, flicking my eyes toward Lyra. “Or to you?”

He didn’t answer. His silence was heavy.

But it wasn’t a no.

Lyra turned, walking toward the door.

“Running away again?” I called after her, voice light.

She paused. Looked over her shoulder.

“No. Just bored of the performance. Try not to trip over your own knife next time.”

Then she was gone.

I looked at Vincenzo, wide-eyed and wounded.

—--------------

The thing about pain is—it fades.

But attention?

That lingers. Especially when you know how to wield it.

Vincenzo didn’t leave my side all night. Not even when the blood stopped staining the gauze or when I told him, in my softest, most breakable voice, “You don’t have to stay, I’m sure she needs you more.”

He stayed.

Of course he did.

And I smiled into the pillow while he wasn’t looking.

It wasn’t about winning. Not really. Not like Lyra would paint it with her dripping sarcasm and righteous fury.

It was about balance. Restoring what belonged.

Because I belonged here. In this house. At Vincenzo’s side. Not her. Not the outsider with soft eyes and a hero complex. This world would eat her alive—and maybe, just maybe, I’d sharpen the teeth.

“You should rest,” he’d said eventually, standing from the edge of my bed.

“Stay?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer at first.

Then he did.

“I’ll check on you in the morning.”

That was enough—for now.