[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl-Chapter 173: A splash of color

CASSIAN

The boardroom was silent, the air thick with the residue of a corporate execution. Preston didn’t wait for the silence to last before he launched his offensive. He leaned back in his leather chair, his eyes raking over me with a slow, deliberate contempt that he had spent years perfecting.

"You know, if someone walked in off the street," Preston began, his voice a smooth drawl of practiced superiority, "they’d think Father hired a gangster to sit in on the Hendrix crisis. The suit barely helps, Cassian."

He gestured vaguely toward my neck, where the dark ink of my tattoos peeked out above the crisp white line of my collar, and then down toward my hands, where the scars of a dozen street fights and a decade of violence were etched into my skin.

"It’s already embarrassing enough," he continued, warming to his theme. "Having someone who looks like... that representing the Wolfe name. It’s a stain on our reputation. But then, on top of that..." His voice dropped, a layer of genuine disgust creeping in. "We find out he’s sleeping with men. Men."

He let the word hang in the air like a foul odor. "What exactly does that say about this family? About Father’s judgment? About what we’re letting represent us in the highest circles of the city?"

The Implication was as subtle as a sledgehammer: my appearance was shameful, my sexuality was a liability, and my very existence was an ongoing apology the Wolfe family had to make to the world.

I didn’t tense. I didn’t raise my voice. I simply tilted my head, looking at him with the same clinical interest I might give a particularly loud species of bird. I let the silence stretch until Preston started to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"Interesting," I said finally. "You spend a lot of time thinking about who I’m sleeping with, Preston. More than your fiancée does, I’d imagine."

Preston’s face went pale, then a mottled, angry red. "What—"

"How is Victoria, by the way?" I asked, my tone conversational. "Does she know how often you think about my sex life? It’s fascinating, really. Men who are secure in themselves don’t typically have that much to say about other men’s preferences." I leaned back, a cold smirk touching my lips. "Just an observation."

I let my eyes travel slowly from his perfectly polished shoes to his manicured hair, mirroring the way he had just appraised me.

"The tattoos, by the way? Each one was earned. Can you say the same about anything you’re wearing? Or have you just spent your life buying things to hide the fact that there’s nothing underneath the wool?"

Preston erupted. He stood so abruptly his chair screeched back against the floor like a wounded animal.

"You piece of—! You think that’s funny? You think any of this is funny?" He slammed his palm onto the table, making the crystal water glasses tremble. "You waltz in here late, you disrespect every senior board member in that room, and now you’re sitting there making jokes? You are an embarrassment to this family! To Father! To everything we’ve built!"

I just watched him, my smirk widening just a fraction. This was the Preston I knew: the one who broke the second his polished surface was scratched.

"WIPE THAT LOOK OFF YOUR FACE—"

"Enough."

My father’s voice wasn’t loud, but the room went instantly cold. Preston stopped mid-shout, his chest heaving, his face a mask of impotent fury. He slowly sank back into his chair, his eyes still burning.

Charles didn’t look at me first. He looked at Preston. "I expected better from you, Preston," he said, his voice dripping with a disappointment that was far more cutting than anger.

"You should know by now that engaging with him only encourages it." He spared a brief, dismissive glance in my direction. "He’s been a troublemaker since he could walk. And his... preferences... are his own business, as long as they don’t interfere with the firm."

Preston looked like he’d been slapped. "Father, you’re too lenient with him! He went to prison. Mass murder. We had to spend considerable resources getting him out of that situation, and he has the audacity to behave like he’s untouchable. Like none of it matters... "

"Preston." My father’s voice was like a closing door. "That’s enough. The past is settled. We don’t discuss it. Not here. Not anywhere."

Preston’s jaw clenched so hard I could hear the bone grind, but he fell silent. He was still a dog on a leash, even at his age. At least I had the decency to know what I was.

Charles pivoted, his tone shifting into the sharp, businesslike register he used when he was done with the theater.

"The Alex Hendrix situation. You chose to resolve it by redirecting attention to Lorenzo Marchetti."

He folded his hands on the table. "Lorenzo has powerful allies. If they suspect the evidence was planted... that creates exposure. For you. For us. The timing of Alex’s death is suspiciously convenient. People will ask questions."

"The Lorenzo evidence isn’t planted," I said, leaning forward. "The meeting happened. It was recorded. The money moved. I just made sure it was found. Lorenzo’s allies won’t risk exposure themselves. They’ll let it go. They always do." I met my father’s gaze, my eyes flat. "Convenient timing is just competent planning. If anyone asks questions... they won’t find answers."

A flicker of something... satisfaction? Pride?... passed through my father’s eyes before he masked it with a neutral "Mmm."

"The point is," Preston inserted, trying to regain some modicum of control, "the way you handle things, Cassian... it puts the family at risk. Your... methods. Your instincts. Alex was a useful asset, whatever you thought of him personally. Why would you jeopardize that?"

"Because he deserved it," I said.

"That’s not—" Preston started. "Business decisions can’t be made based on—"

"What did he do?" Charles interrupted, his voice laced with a curiosity that was far too sharp. He was probing, looking for the lever he could use against me.

I looked at him and saw the predator. He already knew I’d killed Alex. He knew I’d been digging. He just wanted to know why. I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of knowing about Noah.

I shrugged. "He irritated me."

The silence that followed was absolute. Preston stared at me as if I were insane. Charles just watched me, searching for the lie. I gave him nothing. I stood up, buttoning my jacket with a slow, steady hand.

"Is this what you kept me for?" I asked. "To discuss things that are already handled?"

"Sit. Down," Preston hissed, but I didn’t even look at him. I was already pushing my chair in.

"Your assistant," my father said, his voice catching me just as I reached the door.

I froze. I didn’t turn around, but my body went still, every muscle coiling.

"Noah Bennett," Charles continued. "I hope he won’t become... a complication."

The air In the room seemed to vanish. My father wasn’t asking about Noah’s productivity. He was asking if Noah was a weakness. He was asking if Noah was something he could use to pull my leash.

I forced myself to turn around, my face a mask of perfect, cold neutrality. "Noah Bennett is someone I use to take the edge off," I said, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. "Nothing more. A convenient distraction. He doesn’t mean anything."

I looked between my father and my brother, my voice dropping to a dangerous level. "I’d suggest you focus your concern on the Lorenzo family’s remaining allies or the ministry deadline. Stop concerning yourselves with who I’m fucking. It’s embarrassing for both of you."

I walked out without waiting for a response, the door clicking shut behind me with a finality that echoed through the hall.

The elevator ride down was a slow descent into a different kind of hell. I watched my reflection in the mirrored doors... the tattoos, the suit, the cold eyes of a man who had just lied to the most dangerous person he knew.

"He doesn’t mean anything."

The words repeated in my mind, a rhythmic, accusing chant. There was a twist in my stomach, a sharp, uncomfortable feeling that felt suspiciously like guilt, or perhaps something more terrifying. It was the same thing I’d said about Julian, years ago. Before I’d admitted what he was to me. Before I’d realized I’d burn the world down to keep him safe.

Liar, my conscience whispered.

I pushed the thought down. Noah was temporary. A contract. A distraction. He had to be. If he was anything more, he would be a target. I couldn’t let that happen, he was already hurt once because of me.

The drive back to the villa was silent. I stared out the window at the passing city, but all I saw was the way Noah had looked when I’d left him this morning. The way he’d gripped my tie. The way he’d said my name.

When the car finally pulled through the gates of the villa, I was out before the driver could even open the door. I handed him my coat and stepped into the foyer. Mrs. Chen was in the hallway, and she gave me a small, knowing bow.

"Is he up?" I asked immediately. I didn’t ask about the mail or the house. I asked about him.

Mrs. Chen hid a smile. "Yes, sir. About an hour ago."

"Good."

I started up the stairs, loosening my tie and undoing the top button of my shirt. The warmth in my chest was unwelcome, a blooming heat that I tried to ignore. I reached the bedroom door and stopped, my hand hovering over the handle.

He’s just a distraction, I told myself. I told Father that to protect him. Because I don’t want them meddling.

But the twist in my stomach wouldn’t go away. Liar, it whispered again.

I pushed through the door.

The room was dim, the heavy curtains still mostly drawn. Noah was on the bed, bundled in the charcoal blankets until he was practically a cocoon. He was propped up against the headboard, his hair a messy, dark halo, his face soft in the glow of the TV. I could see the marks I’d left on his neck... my marks.

He was watching some dramatic series, his brow furrowed in concentration, completely unaware that I was standing there. He looked so peaceful. So content. He looked like he belonged there, in my bed, in my house.

The warmth hit me harder than I expected. My father’s voice echoed in my head: "I hope he won’t become a complication." Then my own voice, colder and sharper: "He doesn’t mean anything."

I stood in the doorway, watching him for a long, silent minute. He still hadn’t noticed me. He just looked impossibly soft, a splash of color and life in the cold, gray world I had built for myself.

And for the first time in three years, I felt a genuine, terrifying fear... not of what my father could do to me, but of how much I was starting to need the boy in my bed.