Cassandra Richards stood in the far corner of the room, clutching a champagne flute she had no intention of drinking, and watched everyone else enjoy themselves. She always felt so uncomfortable at these gatherings. Laughter drifted through the air, light and effortless. Crystal glasses clinked.
Expensive perfume mingled with the scent of money and power—something she had never quite learned how to wear. She shifted her weight in heels that pinched and resisted the urge to tug at the hem of her dress. Everyone here looked as though they belonged. She felt like an uninvited guest who had somehow slipped past security.
This was not her world. And it never would be. Even though she grew up in this world, she always felt like she was the outsider.
If it were up to her, she’d be home in worn pyjamas with a book and a mug of coffee. But Cassandra had never been good at saying no—especially not to her godmother, Sylvia McAlistair. Sylvia asked, and Cassandra complied. Always had, always will.
Her gaze flicked across the room before she could stop herself.
Bradley.
Her fiancé stood near the center of the crowd, tall and polished in his tailored suit, looking every bit the youngest heir to the McAlistair empire. He hadn’t looked at her once since she arrived. Not a nod. Not a smile. Not even the courtesy of acknowledgment. Like she was a stranger.
Instead, Amanda Wright stood at his side—his personal assistant, impossibly beautiful, perfectly poised, laughing at something he’d said as her hand brushed his arm. They moved together easily, naturally, like two people who actually wanted to be near each other.
The sight made Cassandra’s chest tighten.
So this is what it looks like, she thought. Being invisible to the man you’re supposed to marry.
Bradley hated her. He didn’t bother hiding it. He hated the engagement, hated the obligation, hated the fact that his mother had decided Cassandra Richards was suitable enough to be his future wife. To him, she wasn’t a woman—she was a decision made without his consent.
She swallowed hard and stared down into her glass, watching the bubbles rise and burst. How pathetic would it be to cry at a party like this? Very. Another reason to stay firmly planted in the corner. Being invisible.
“Hey, sweetie.”
Cassandra startled as an arm slipped warmly around her shoulders. Immediately she felt comforted.
“You look like someone on her way to the dentist,” Sylvia McAlistair said with a soft laugh. “This is a party. You’re supposed to be having fun.”
Sylvia—early fifties, eternally flawless, and effortlessly commanding—pulled Cassandra closer to her side. She smelled faintly of roses and confidence. The kind of woman who had never stood in a corner unless she chose to.
Cassandra forced a smile. If Sylvia noticed how Bradley hadn’t looked her way all evening, she didn’t say a word.
And somehow, that hurt almost as much as his indifference.
Cassandra was just beginning to relax under Sylvia’s arm when Bradley’s voice cut through the hum of conversation.
“Mother.”
The single word was cool, controlled—and unmistakably dismissive.
Sylvia stiffened beside her, though her smile didn’t falter. Cassandra felt it anyway, the subtle shift in the air. Bradley approached with Amanda at his side, her hand resting lightly on his forearm as though it belonged there.
“Bradley,” Sylvia said warmly. “I was just telling Cassandra how lovely she looks tonight.”
His gaze flicked to Cassandra for the first time all evening. It passed over her in a brief, assessing sweep—too quick, too impersonal.
“Yes,” he said, turning immediately back to his mother. “She looks… appropriate.”
Appropriate.
The word lodged itself in Cassandra’s chest like a splinter.
Amanda tilted her head and smiled at Cassandra, her expression sweet, almost apologetic.
“Oh, I just love that dress,” she said lightly. “I almost wore something similar myself, but I wasn’t sure it was quite right for this crowd.”
Her eyes dipped—just for a fraction of a second—to Cassandra’s shoes.
Cassandra’s fingers tightened around her glass.
Bradley continued as though Cassandra weren’t standing inches away. “Amanda and I were just discussing the upcoming merger dinner. She’s indispensable—keeps me sane, honestly.”
Amanda laughed softly, her hand pressing a little more firmly against his arm. “You flatter me, Mr. McAlistair. I’m just here to make your life easier.”
Sylvia’s arm slid more securely around Cassandra’s shoulders.
“I’m sure you are,” Sylvia said, her tone pleasant but edged with steel. “Though it’s nice to remember that Cassandra is the woman Bradley will be building his life with. Not his assistant.”
Bradley’s jaw tightened. “Of course,” he said. Then, turning finally to Cassandra, he offered a thin smile. “You don’t mind, do you? Amanda understands this world better than most. I thought it best she stay close tonight.”
Translation: You don’t belong here—but she does.
Cassandra forced herself to meet his gaze. Her heart thudded painfully, but she refused to look away. If this was the role she’d been cast in, she would not crumble on cue.
“No,” she said quietly. “Why would I?”
Amanda’s smile widened—pleased, knowing. “You’re so understanding,” she said. “It’s one of the things I admire most about you.”
Sylvia squeezed Cassandra’s shoulder gently, a silent reassurance.
“Bradley,” Sylvia said, her voice calm but final, “you’ll dance with your fiancée before the night is over. That is not a request.”
Bradley’s eyes flashed with irritation, but Sylvia’s gaze held firm—unyielding, maternal, protective. After a tense beat, he inclined his head.
“Of course, Mother.”
He offered Cassandra his arm.
For the first time that evening, she wondered which of them was truly trapped.
The music began softly, a slow, elegant melody that curled through the room like a dare.
Bradley placed a hand at Cassandra’s waist, his touch correct and distant, as though he were escorting a business partner rather than dancing with the woman he was meant to marry. His other hand clasped hers—cool, impersonal.
Cassandra felt every inch of space between them.
They moved onto the dance floor, surrounded by murmured conversation and watching eyes. She was acutely aware of Amanda standing at the edge of the crowd, her gaze fixed on them, her expression unreadable.
Bradley leaned down just enough for only Cassandra to hear.
“This doesn’t need to be uncomfortable,” he said quietly. “We can get through one dance.”
Get through it. Cassandra gritted her teeth. When she had finally gotten engaged to her teenage crush, she expected that he returned her feelings. But instead she later found out that his mother did not give him a choice and she was paying the price for saying yes without asking how he felt.
“I’m sure we can,” Cassandra replied, her voice calm despite the sting.
They swayed in silence for a few moments. Cassandra focused on the music, on the steady rhythm beneath her feet, on not letting the tightness in her chest show on her face.
She refused to give him the satisfaction of discomfort.
