Page 16 of Let it Ignite
“Cassie.” Byron’s voice is a low growl.
He’s in the room in two long strides, towering over Peter Cannon like an avenging beast. His flannel sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing. Chest heaving. Eyes burning with murder.
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Byron snaps.
Peter straightens, but he’s pale now. “This is my office—”
“I don’t care.” Byron steps between me and him, his body a wall of protection. “You look at her like that again, I’ll break every bone in your body.”
Peter Cannon stumbles back like he’s been struck. “Hey now—this is a misunderstanding—”
“No,” Byron snarls, stepping forward. “The misunderstanding was you thinking she’s alone. That no one would come for her. That she’s some desperate, stupid girl you could pressure into spreading her legs to chase a dream.”
My heart slams against my ribs. My breath catches.
“She’s not desperate,” Byron says, stepping beside me, shielding me with his body. “She’s talented. She’s worth ten of you. And she doesn’t need this bullshit to prove it.”
The air feels electric. No one speaks. The room practically vibrates with Byron’s fury—and I drink it in like oxygen.
I reach for his hand. Grasp it hard.
Peter sneers. “You think that small-town girl gonna be somebody now? Because you showed up playing hero?”
Byron doesn’t flinch. But his voice turns cold. Calm.
“She already is somebody. She’s mine.”
And just like that, everything inside me locks into place.
The dream I thought I wanted—the lights, the fame, the roles—it all feels dim now compared to this.
Compared to him.
Byron turns to me. “You ready to go, baby?”
I nod, heart full. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”
Because I’m not walking away in shame. I’m walking out with my head high, my hand in his, and a future that finally makes sense.
Chapter 7
Byron
The drive back is quiet.
Cassie’s curled up in the passenger seat, her knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, staring out at the road like she can erase the past hour. The silence between us is thick, humming with everything we’re not saying. I can feel it pressing down on my chest, coiling in my gut like a storm that hasn’t fully broken.
She hasn’t cried.
Not yet.
But I’ve seen enough women cry to know when one’s close. I can see it in the way her jaw clenches, the way she keeps her mouth tight like she’s holding it all in with nothing but sheer will. She’s tough. Tougher than anyone ever gave her credit for. But even steel bends under enough pressure.
I grip the steering wheel harder, my knuckles going white. I should never have taken her there. Should’ve known what that bastard was planning. Should’ve known a casting director was shady. But I let her go in there. I let her walk in thinking it was about talent. About dreams.
And it wasn’t.
It was about what they could take from her.
