Page 39 of Cruel Deception
I rush into the bathroom, shower quickly, and dress. No sign of Cassian anywhere. Good. I’m not in the mood for another icy war of words.
I order an Uber, only to get a message from the driver: he’s not allowed past the estate gates.
Of course. This place is locked tighter than Fort Knox.
There are two cars in the garage, but I don’t dare touch anything of his—not without permission. So I make the choice I swore I’d never make again: I walk.
The path is long, isolated—forest on either side, with massive penthouses looming like silent gods. They all look the same. Cold, colorless, expressionless. No names, no numbers. One could easily wander into the wrong house and never know.
The sun’s out, but the breeze cuts through me. I’m sweating from the exertion, but still cold, my arms prickling with goosebumps. By the time I reach the estate’s main gate, I’m drained.
Two guards stand there, masked, armed, built like tanks. They open the gates without a word. I blink at them. Did they recognize me? Or were they told to expect me?
I only pray they’ll let me back in later.
Once I’m out, I still have to walk another mile before I reach the Uber. Unauthorized vehicles aren’t even allowed close. My legs ache. I feel every damn step.
When I finally reach the car, I collapse into the backseat, breathless. The driver glances at me in the mirror but says nothing. Probably thinks I’m running from some billionaire husband.
He drops me at the Moretti mansion’s gates. I pay, step out, and walk through without a hitch. The guards don’t even glance twice.
This family’s security system is... unsettling. Nothing feels safe here, and yet nothing gets past them.
Inside, I’m escorted to the first living room—so spotless it feels sterile, like a lab designed for royalty. Robotic staff move silently across the marble floors, their faces blank. The scent in the air is sandalwood and lemon—expensive, tailored, deliberate.
Then Luca appears.
“Miss Charlotte,” he greets, as if I hadn’t been stolen from him the night before.
“Hi.”
“Come,” he says smoothly, gesturing. “Let me show you to the bike.”
Luca led me through a long corridor, the silence between us humming with everything unsaid. Finally, we stepped out into a smaller courtyard off the main estate. Parked beside a polished black Maserati was Cassian’s motorbike—sleek, matte black, unmistakable. My heart stuttered.
It looked untouched. Impossibly powerful. And alive.
I clutched the remote in my hand and pressed the button. The bike roared in response, its lights blinking awake. A grin broke over my face—genuine, involuntary. It felt like finding something I’d lost from myself, not just from Cassian.
“I can’t believe you actually found it,” I said, walking over to it, eyes wide as I examined the frame.
Luca stayed a step behind, his voice smooth. “I told you I did.”
“How?” I turned to him.
His expression shuttered. “That doesn’t matter.”
My joy thinned. Of course he wouldn’t say. With the Morettis, everything is a card held close to the chest.
Still, I nodded, fingers brushing the bike’s metal. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t do it for gratitude,” he said. Then he reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and pulled out a slim, official-looking envelope. He handed it to me.
I opened it.
A divorce paper.
My name. Cassian’s name. Already typed and printed. My stomach dropped.
