Twice His Wife

sian came and went like time itself-never asking, never checking, never needing anyone to notice. But she noticed. She always did. And she hated that part of herself the most-the part that still

the same as always-blinding skyline, polished surfaces, a man behind a desk who could command wars with a glance. He didn't flinch when she walked in. "I wasn't expecting you." She dropped the folder on his desk without sitting. "You gave them my name? You gave them me?." Cassian closed the file slowly. "You wanted to work." "I didn't ask to be offered up like a sacrifice." His voice was calm. "It's just branding." "No," she snapped. "It's my life. My losses. My face. You don't get to rewrite my pain just because it fits your narrative." For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared at her. And then, softly, "You think I don't carry it too?" Her throat tightened. She hated how quiet his voice got when it was real. She hated that it still reached her. "You didn't even ask me," she said. "I thought it might give you purpose." "Don't confuse usefulness with healing, Cassian"she seethed. Cassian stood, walked around the desk, and stopped just short of her. Not touching. Just standing there. "I didn't know how to help you," he said. "I still don't. I only know how to build things that can't fall apart." She looked up at him. "Then stop building me into something I'm not." They stood there for a long beat. Just breathing. Then she said, "I want to say no." Cassian's jaw tensed. "And will you?" She didn't answer. She did the interview. She didn't want to. But something told her if she didn't speak now, someone else would write her story for her-and she couldn't afford to be a myth again. The studio was white, clinical. A couch, a camera and a journalist who smiled a bit too much. The questions started simple."What brough