Some betrayals don't cut skin. They slice identity.
I don't remember what he said first.
Maybe he didn't say anything at all.
Because by the time I walked into the penthouse, the air was already colder. Not in temperature. But in tone. The way people go quiet in church or funerals.
He stood by the window, phone in one hand, scotch in the other. Tailored suit, polished shoes, the kind of posture that tells you everything is in control—even when it's not.
I didn't speak.
Because the moment I saw him, I remembered.
The voice of that woman. Her laugh. Her hand on his arm like it belonged there.His fiancée.
The word still didn't feel real. Like someone had shoved it in my mouth while I was asleep and now it was stuck behind my teeth, bitter and rotting.
He finally looked at me. Calm. Composed. Fucking beautiful.
"How was dinner?" he asked.
Not sarcastic. Not cruel.
Just... casual. Like he wasn't the reason my stomach still felt like glass.
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because how the fuck do you form words when you just realized you're not the girl—you're the secret.
The pause stretched.
Too long.
He put his drink down, came closer.
"You didn't know about her."
A statement. Not a question.
That made it worse.
I laughed. Not because it was funny—but because it was either that or scream.
"You think this is amusing?"
"No," I said, and my voice cracked on the edge of something sharp. "I think it's fucking cruel."
He didn't flinch.
Didn't defend himself.
Just tilted his head slightly like he was observing damage—measuring it.
"I didn't lie," he said.
"You didn't need to," I snapped. "You just omitted the part where you're engaged while shoving your hand up my skirt in the backseat of a car."
He stayed quiet.
Of course he did.
Because that's who Cassian Vale was. He let you unravel. He let you bleed. Then he'd offer you a silk handkerchief and ask you not to stain the floor.
"You should've told me," I said, quieter now. "You owed me that."
"I don't owe you anything."
The words were quiet.
Deadly.
And they hurt more than if he'd slapped me.
He moved past me—like I was a stranger standing in the wrong place. No touch. No glance.
Just silence.
Just that weight.
That cold realization.
I had never been special.
Just selected.