Chapter 7: The Villa Weekend
1227words
The text from Cassian had arrived that morning: *Several key industry contacts at Lake Como this weekend. My villa has plenty of room. Car will collect you at 2pm if interested.*
So impersonal. So careful. As if we hadn't stood inches apart in my apartment three nights ago, his breath on my face, the wall at my back.
Since then, silence. While Milan buzzed with news of Orion and Isolde's arrival, I'd thrown myself into preparation for my end-of-term presentation. And now this—an invitation I should refuse but couldn't bring myself to decline.
The sleek black car arrived precisely at two. The driver took my bag without comment, and we left Milan behind, heading north toward the legendary lake.
I watched the landscape transform from urban sprawl to rolling hills, finally giving way to the breathtaking vista of Lake Como, its deep blue waters framed by mountains. We wound along the shoreline until turning onto a private drive that climbed through cypress trees.
Cassian's villa was not the ostentatious mansion I'd expected, but an elegant stone structure that seemed to grow naturally from the hillside. Terraced gardens descended toward the lake, and a small dock extended into the water.
He was waiting on the steps, casual in a way I rarely saw him—linen shirt with rolled sleeves, no tie, hair slightly tousled by the lake breeze.
"You came," he said simply, as if he'd half-expected me to refuse.
"You mentioned industry contacts."
Something like disappointment flickered across his face. "Yes. Dinner tonight. They're staying in Bellagio."
The driver deposited my bag and departed, leaving us alone in the golden afternoon light.
"Let me show you around," Cassian said, maintaining a careful distance as he led me inside.
The villa was a perfect blend of traditional Italian architecture and modern comfort—stone floors, high beamed ceilings, and walls of windows framing the lake view. My room overlooked the water, with a small balcony and an en-suite bathroom of marble and glass.
"It's beautiful," I said, setting down my bag.
"It was my grandmother's. The only property I kept separate from Vexley Enterprises." He leaned against the doorframe, watching me. "No one can reach you here without my permission. Not your father, not Orion."
The thought was both comforting and unsettling—being completely alone with Cassian, away from the complications of Milan.
"Where are they staying? Orion and Isolde?"
"At the Grand Hotel in Como. Your father joined them yesterday." His jaw tightened. "They've been inquiring about available designers for Isolde's dress."
"How fortunate I'm not available," I said dryly.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Indeed."
We spent the afternoon in companionable silence on the terrace—Cassian on his laptop handling business matters, me sketching new designs inspired by the lake's colors. The tension between us remained, but it was softer here, less urgent.
"May I see?" he asked, nodding toward my sketchbook.
I hesitated, then handed it over. His fingers brushed mine in the exchange, sending familiar electricity up my arm.
He studied each drawing carefully. "These are exceptional, Seraphina. Especially this one." He pointed to a flowing evening gown with a dramatic back.
"It's for my final presentation."
"It will make an impression." He returned the sketchbook, his expression thoughtful. "You've found your voice here."
"Milan suits me."
"Italy suits you," he corrected. "You've bloomed here."
The compliment warmed me more than it should have. I reached for my pencil, but it rolled off the table. We both moved to catch it, and I felt a sharp sting.
"Ouch!" I pulled back my hand to find a thin line of blood across my index finger.
"Let me see." Cassian took my hand before I could protest, examining the cut. "It's not deep, but we should clean it."
He led me to the kitchen, still holding my hand. From a drawer, he produced a first aid kit and gently cleaned the cut with antiseptic.
"You're good at this," I observed, trying to ignore how his touch affected me.
"Practice. I spent my childhood patching up my own injuries." He wrapped a small bandage around my finger with surprising tenderness. "My father wasn't one for coddling."
"Neither was mine."
His thumb brushed over my palm as he finished. "There."
But he didn't release my hand. Our eyes met, and the careful distance we'd maintained all day evaporated.
"Cassian," I whispered, not sure if I was asking him to let go or pull me closer.
"We should prepare for dinner," he said, his voice rough. "The car will be here in an hour."
He stepped back, breaking the spell. I fled to my room, heart pounding as if I'd run a marathon.
Dinner with Cassian's contacts—a buyer from Neiman Marcus and the creative director of a major fashion house—was productive but tense. I felt Cassian's eyes on me throughout the evening, watching as I charmed his associates with my designs and vision.
The drive back to the villa was silent, the space between us in the car charged with unspoken words.
"You impressed them tonight," he said finally as we pulled up to the villa.
"That was the point, wasn't it? The networking opportunity?"
His eyes met mine in the dim car interior. "Was that the only reason you came?"
The question hung between us as we entered the villa. In the grand entryway, with moonlight streaming through the windows, I finally found my courage.
"No," I admitted. "It wasn't."
Cassian stood perfectly still, his expression unreadable. "Seraphina—"
"Don't." I stepped closer. "Don't tell me again why this can't happen. Don't list the reasons—my age, your age, our families. I know them all."
"Then you know why I've kept my distance."
"What I know is that I'm tired of other people deciding my life. Orion, my father, Victoria—they all thought they knew what was best for me." Another step closer. "I won't add you to that list, Cassian."
"I'm trying to protect you."
"I don't need protection. I need—" I stopped, suddenly uncertain.
"What?" His voice was barely audible. "What do you need?"
The last of my restraint crumbled. "You."
I wasn't sure who moved first. One moment we were standing apart, the next his mouth was on mine, hungry and desperate. His hands framed my face as if I were something precious, something he'd been starving for.
I clutched his shirt, pulling him closer, pouring weeks of suppressed desire into the kiss. He tasted of wine and possibility, his body hard against mine.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, he rested his forehead against mine.
"This is madness," he whispered.
"Then let's be mad."
His eyes, dark with desire, searched mine. "I'm too old for you. Too damaged."
"That's not for you to decide." I touched his face, tracing the scar along his jaw. "I choose you, Cassian. Scars and all."
Something broke in his expression—restraint giving way to raw need. He lifted me as if I weighed nothing, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me up the stairs.
In the moonlit bedroom, with Lake Como shimmering beyond the windows, we surrendered to the current that had pulled between us since that first night in the library.
And for the first time in my life, I felt truly seen.
