Chapter 3
The apartment was small—a fifth-floor walkup in a neighborhood where the windows were barred and the air smelled of garlic and cigarettes. But it was ours.
"Do you like it?" I asked Caden, watching as he explored the cramped space, touching the faded wallpaper with childlike wonder.
He nodded enthusiastically. "Our home!"
I smiled despite myself. Two weeks had passed since our impulsive wedding, and somehow we'd fallen into a strange rhythm. Each morning, Caden would wake before dawn to bake in our tiny kitchenette. I'd sell his pastries at the local farmers' market while he wandered around the block, collecting discarded treasures he called "art."
"The croissants are gone again," I announced, returning home with an empty basket. "And Mrs. Patel ordered two dozen for her daughter's graduation party."
Caden clapped his hands, his eyes bright with pride. "Good! Good!"
I studied him carefully. Something about his baking skills didn't match his supposed mental limitations. Those perfect layers of butter and dough required precision, timing, and technical knowledge that seemed beyond his capabilities.
"How did you learn to bake like this?" I asked casually, watching his reaction.
He looked up from the newspaper he was pretending to read upside down. "TV," he said simply. "Watch and remember."
Before I could press further, he jumped up and ran to the window. "Bird! Pretty bird!"
I sighed and turned away. The farmers' market had become our lifeline. What started as a desperate attempt to make rent had blossomed into a thriving little business. Caden's pastries were unlike anything our customers had tasted before—flaky, buttery perfection that sold out within hours.
I was arranging the next day's display when it happened.
The vase—a chipped relic from a secondhand store—slipped from my hands. Before I could even gasp, Caden moved. His body shifted with military precision, catching the vase inches from the floor.
"Careful," he said, his voice momentarily clear of its usual childish inflection.
Our eyes met, and for a split second, I saw something different—a flash of sharp intelligence before the vacant stare returned.
"Thank you," I whispered, taking the vase from his hands.
That evening, I caught him reading the financial section of the newspaper. Not just looking at the pictures—reading it. When he noticed me watching, he quickly turned the paper upside down, resuming his vacant expression.
"Caden," I said slowly, "can you understand what you're reading?"
He blinked at me with innocent confusion. "Pictures. Pretty pictures."
I wasn't convinced.
---
The envelope arrived on a Tuesday. Heavy cream cardstock with gold embossing—the Anderson Pack's signature style.
"What's that?" Caden asked, watching me stare at the unopened envelope.
I turned it over in my hands. "The Alpha Ascension Gala. Liam's official coronation as Alpha."
Caden nodded, his expression unreadable. "Fancy party."
I opened the envelope with trembling fingers. Inside was an invitation—not the usual elegant card, but a crude parody drawn on cheap paper.
"The Fool and His Bride are cordially invited to witness the true Alpha's ascension. Come as you are—no need to dress up."
Liam's handwriting. His final attempt to humiliate us.
"Trash," I muttered, crumpling the invitation. "We're not going."
But before I could throw it away, Caden's hand closed around mine. His grip was firm—nothing like the limp handshake he usually offered.
"We go," he said, his voice suddenly clear and commanding. "Pretty dress."
I stared at him in shock. "What?"
He repeated himself, his eyes meeting mine with unexpected intensity. "We go. Pretty dress."
Something in his expression made me nod. "Okay. If you want to."
---
The night of the gala arrived with a sky full of stars. I'd borrowed a simple black dress from a neighbor—nothing fancy, but clean and dignified.
"Ready?" I asked Caden, who sat on the edge of our bed, staring at nothing.
He nodded but didn't move. "Need minute."
I stepped into the bathroom to give him privacy, applying a final coat of mascara while wondering why I'd agreed to this torture.
An hour later, I emerged to find Caden gone.
Panic fluttered in my chest. Had he wandered off? Been taken advantage of?
The knock on our apartment door sent me rushing to open it.
And there he stood.
Not the Caden I knew—the vacant-eyed simpleton who collected discarded treasures and baked perfect pastries. This man wore a tuxedo that fit him as if it had been sewn onto his body. His hair was neatly styled, his posture ramrod straight.
"Caden?" I whispered, hardly recognizing him.
He didn't answer. Instead, he offered his arm with fluid grace.
I took it instinctively, my mind reeling with questions. As we walked to the waiting taxi, I studied his profile—sharp jaw, confident eyes that met mine without wavering.
The madness had been a mask all along.
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