Julian woke up to the sound of opera music.
Blasting.
From the kitchen.
At 2:12 a.m.
He stumbled out of bed in silk pajama pants, hair tousled, looking like a sleep-deprived Greek god. "Cassandra?"
He followed the smell of espresso and sugar into the kitchen, only to find…
Cassandra. In a sparkly silver cocktail dress. Hair curled. Eyeliner fierce. Dancing with a spatula while flipping pancakes.
"What is happening?" he mumbled.
"Emergency planning," she said cheerfully.
"For?"
"Our fake honeymoon."
Julian blinked.
"You planned a fake wedding, we might as well have a fake honeymoon. Preferably in Tuscany. Or a billionaire's private yacht. Or in hiding with pancakes."
She handed him a plate stacked with five buttery, fluffy masterpieces, shaped like hearts and possibly a goat.
He took one bite. "I would marry you for these alone."
"You did marry me."
"Right," he said. "Forgot. The trauma fried my memory."
Twelve hours later, Cassandra was gliding through a luxury hotel lobby in Rome, wearing sunglasses the size of teacup saucers and the confidence of a woman who once blackmailed a CEO during brunch.
Julian followed behind her, now fully on board with the "let's fake-honeymoon and cause chaos" plan.
Their cover identities?
Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe — reclusive billionaires obsessed with architecture, aged scotch, and possibly smuggling Renaissance art.
Room: Presidential Suite.
View: The Vatican.
Neighbors: Questionable.
Especially the old man in the elevator who winked at Cassandra and handed her a matchbox with nothing inside.
Later that night, she opened it again.
This time, there was a note.
Trust no one. Not even him.
She blinked.
Then looked at Julian.
"Okay," she said. "Now it's getting fun."
Meanwhile, Julian had picked up on something odd too.
Their room was swept clean of bugs. Their security was tight. But the maid kept folding his boxers into perfect squares, even though he never left them in the open.
"You think someone's watching us?" he asked.
"No," Cassandra replied, her voice low and amused. "Someone's waiting."
Julian pulled her close. "Then let's give them a show."
Their kiss was urgent, unapologetic, like two people who knew this quiet wouldn't last.
And when Julian picked her up and carried her to the bed—still half-laughing, half-burning—they stopped pretending.
There were no games in the dark.
Only fire.
Hours later, Cassandra's phone buzzed on the nightstand.
A single message:
Found him. He's not who you think. Meet me at midnight. Come alone.
She stared at the screen, her heart skipping.
Julian stirred. "You okay?"
"Fine," she whispered, pressing the lock button.
Lying to him hurt more than she expected.
But if this was about Julian's past—the parts of it even he didn't know—she had to follow the trail alone.
At midnight, Cassandra stepped out of the suite in a black coat and boots, heart pounding.
She found the messenger at a tiny café down a narrow Roman alley.
A woman. Pale, sharp-eyed, with a scar under one ear.
"You're Cassandra Beaumont."
"You're very observant."
The woman slid a photo across the table. "This is Julian Ashford's real file. The one your mother kept hidden. The one even he doesn't know about."
Cassandra opened the envelope slowly.
And what she saw made her blood freeze.
Names. Places. Experiments.
She didn't understand all of it—but she understood enough.
They didn't just match Cassandra to Julian.
They built Julian for her.
Back at the hotel, Julian stood on the balcony, a whiskey glass in his hand, watching the stars.
He heard the door click open behind him.
She was back.
He turned. "Everything okay?"
Cassandra smiled softly. Kissed him like it was the last time.
"Everything's perfect," she whispered.
But inside, she was unraveling.
Because the man she loved… might never have had a choice.