Page 2 of A Sinful Gravity

I yanked the charger from my phone. Full battery, but zero messages—a stark contrast.

My pinned chat with Cassian stopped at 10 a.m yesterday.

"When are you coming home?"

"Emergency meeting at the office tonight. Don't wait up."

"Okay, take care."

I stared at the screen, zoning out. Cassian hadn't been home for two days straight.

The wedding photo on the wall pulled my thoughts to him, far away. I should get his busyness. He was a notorious workaholic. He had reasons for not coming home: a whole building waiting on his signatures, endless meetings, mergers that wouldn't quit.

But on our anniversary, he couldn't even spare a text? Disappointment hit hard, eyes stinging. I wondered if something was off between us.

I glanced at the ring on my finger and smirked bitterly. Yeah, notorious workaholic. How could he remember a third anniversary?

Outside, Washington's morning sky hung gray-blue, thin clouds drifting. Cars passed below, muffled through the glass. I sat on the bed's edge, fully awake now, then got up and headed to the kitchen.

Even if Cassian wasn't coming home, I worried about his nonstop grind wearing him down. So I decided to bring him some soup tonight—selfishly, just to see that cold bastard's face.

Maybe in his office, we could pick up where that dream left off.

As I prepped ingredients, my mind replayed last night's dream. So real, so intense. I could still feel his grip on my waist, the rough drag of his fingers on my skin.

Thinking about it made my cheeks heat up. Sure, our marriage started as an arrangement, but I'd long seen him as my only love. I loved his calm focus at work, and the way he shed that control in bed, claiming me wildly.

I grabbed the pot from the cabinet, ingredients from the fridge, and got to work. The kitchen filled with familiar sounds: water running, knife chopping, the soft pop of the burner igniting. Aromas soon wafted up.

I learned to make soup in our first year of marriage.

More like, I taught myself. No one asked. His mom was gone, and the housekeeper handled most chores. I could've done nothing, just played the perfect trophy wife: dress up, show up where needed, keep a polite distance otherwise.

But I didn't.

I wrecked a cookbook over two weekends, scorched two pots, mixed up salt and sugar once—soup came out like soda. I told no one, dumped it, and tried again the next day.

Then one night, Cassian came home late. I set a bowl of broth in front of him. He took a sip, paused, then said, "Not bad."

Just that.

"Not bad."

I stood in the kitchen doorway, grinning like an idiot for ten minutes.

Cassian King, the guy known in business for being stingy with words, called my soup "not bad."

Looking back, I don't know if I was just dumb, or if I'd gone so long without approval that I clutched at any scrap of warmth and held it close.

I turned down the heat, let the soup simmer, and went back to the bedroom to change.

Grabbing clothes from the closet, a gold-embossed envelope slipped from the top shelf.

It had been tucked under an old leotard I never wore. I picked it up—the small logo in the corner: Royal Ballet. My fingertip lingered on the elegant gold emblem for two seconds.

I started training professionally at twelve, won my first international award at sixteen, and got offers from three top companies at twenty. Back then, I figured my path was set: studio, stage, principal dancer, bigger stages. I thought I knew where I was headed.

But Mom's company crisis hit out of nowhere, forcing me to consider marriage alliances.