Page 20 of A Sinful Gravity

Last chance.

Cassian, don't fuck it up.

Chapter Five

Luna

On my birthday, rain started falling at four in the morning. Gray mist hung over Washington like a shroud, pressing down on the city, suffocating everything beneath it.

I woke just after six. When my phone lit up, my heart actually skipped. Cassian was calling.

"Luna," his voice carried that rough edge of exhaustion, but there was something almost eager when he mentioned tonight. "Happy birthday. I'll pick you up at seven—maybe wear that perfect blue dress?"

Short and to the point. He hung up before I could respond. But I stood there for a long time, feeling something strange flutter in my chest. I knew I was smiling.

For a moment, I almost forgot everything awful from the past few days.

This was the first time in three years he'd actually made plans for my birthday—a real date. He spent two-thirds of the year traveling, working, and schmoozing clients. Holidays usually slipped his mind, marked only by a card, maybe jewelry.

But this sudden tenderness, this ceremony of it all, hit like morphine. Instant forgiveness for all the cold violence that came before.

Maybe after that angry, tearful fight, he was actually trying to change.

I spent the entire afternoon getting ready.

Bath, skincare, hair, makeup. I put on the blue dress, pinned my hair up, let it down, and pinned it up again. Three different versions in the mirror. Finally settled on simple—half-up, blonde hair falling over my shoulders. Effortless. Clean. Like the first time I met Cassian.

By the time I finished, it was almost six. I pulled up the photo of that sapphire necklace again, imagining the perfect surprised expression I'd wear when I saw it tonight.

Chloe's words echoed in my head. "Cassian loves you, he just doesn't know how to show it. He bought that necklace for today. He gets you."

Outside, rain tapped against the windows. It felt like it was tapping on my heart, sending up little splashes of joy.

Seven o'clock came. Nothing.

Seven-thirty. Eight.

The rain got heavier. The whole world blurred with moisture.

I called him. Once. Twice. Three times. Nothing but cold mechanical voicemail.

That afternoon joy cooled slowly through the long wait, finally freezing into something bone-deep and bitter.

At 10:05, my phone rang.

I flexed my stiff fingers and swiped. A sweet, syrupy female voice answered.

"Mrs. King, hi, this is Sloane. Cassian had a last-minute business thing this afternoon. He's drunk now, at the Obsidian club in the VIP lounge."

Sloane's words and the way she said "Cassian," so familiar, so intimate, hit like hammers. I could barely stay upright. Took forever to find my voice.

"Why is it you?" I gripped the phone, voice ice cold. "Stay away from him."

Sloane didn't respond to that. Just kept going in that formatted tone. "He asked me to call you. He wants you to pick him up. The situation here... isn't great."

Rage, humiliation, worry—all twisted together, choking me. I could picture Sloane's smirk on the other end. Made me want to tear her apart.

But deeper than that was bone-deep panic. I didn't want Cassian getting hurt out there, even if he'd just stood me up.