[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl-Chapter 127: Theater

CASSIAN

The black sedan was a tomb of silence as it sat idling just outside the Llotja de Mar.

Through the deep tint of the windows, the world outside was a frenetic, silent movie of flashing strobes and red carpet theatrics. I could see the vultures, the reporters, vying for position, their cameras held aloft like weapons.

My phone was pressed to my ear, the only thing grounding me being the familiar, irritating frequency of Cyan’s voice.

"I still can’t believe you’re not letting me come," Cyan complained, his tone so petulant I could practically see the pout on his bruised face. "This is cruel and unusual punishment, Cassian. I’m being detained against my will."

"You have a broken arm," I said flatly, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. I looked like a man who hadn’t just tumbled a high-performance vehicle into a ditch three days ago.

"So? I can still function! I have one perfectly good hand for holding a martini and another for slapping sense into people," Cyan argued. "Do you have ANY idea how many government officials will be there? Ministers. Senators. Undersecretaries. All those powerful men in expensive suits, vibrating with the need to be bribed or seduced. And I’m stuck in this hospital room, eating gelatin that smells like floor cleaner."

"Yeah. Yeah. Shut the fuck up," I muttered, adjusting my silk tie.

"Excuse me?"

"You’re not fine, Cyan. You’re injured. I’m not risking you being at a potentially dangerous event with half an arm. If things go south, you can’t even climb out a window properly."

The line went quiet for exactly two seconds. I knew him well enough to know he was loading his next clip.

"Half an arm?!" his voice rose to a shriek. "How DARE you! My arm is whole, it is simply... encumbered by plaster! It’s an accessory!"

"You know what I mean."

"I could still beat your ass with half an arm! I’m not useless, Cassian!"

"I didn’t say you were useless," I replied, my voice softening just a fraction. "I said you’d be in the way when shit goes down."

Which honestly I was hoping it didn’t because of the exhaustion that clung stubbornly to me and refused to go away.

But if course I didn’t say out loud. Not to Cyan at least.

"I can’t protect you and scan for a shooter at the same time." I continued.

Cyan gasped, a genuine, theatrical intake of breath. "IN THE WAY? I saved your life in that car! I’m the reason we aren’t both currently in a morgue drawer!"

"And you got yourself injured in the process," I countered. "Proving my point. You’re a liability until that cast comes off. Stay in bed."

"You’re impossible," he spat, though the venom was fading.

"You’re dramatic."

"You’re an asshole."

"Old news, Cyan. Get some sleep."

The silence that followed wasn’t playful anymore. It settled between us, heavy and cold, the way it always did when the reality of our lives finally caught up to the banter.

"Be careful tonight," Cyan said, his voice dropping an octave. The playfulness was gone, replaced by the sharp, analytical edge that made him my best operative. "I’m serious, Cassian. You don’t know what’s waiting for you in there. Emilio could have people everywhere. Waiters, security, even the guests. He’s young enough to be stupid and rich enough to be thorough."

"I know," I said, my hand tightening on the door handle.

"I mean it. Don’t let your guard down. Not for a second." He paused, then added in a lighter, more mischievous tone, "And say hi to Noah for me."

My jaw clenched instantly. The mere mention of the name sent a spike of irritation, and something far more uncomfortable, through my chest.

"Cyan—"

Cyan laughed, the sound bright and knowing. He knew exactly which buttons to press.

"Love you too, darling. Kick some ass. And don’t get hurt. I don’t want to have to share my Jell-O with you."

The call ended, leaving me alone with the hum of the engine and the crushing weight of my own thoughts.

I pocketed the phone and took a slow, deep breath, feeling the restriction of the three-piece suit. I hated these events. I always had.

To the outsiders, it was a party, a celebration of wealth and architecture. To me, it was theater. A high-stakes performance where every handshake was a negotiation and every smile was a lie.

This gala was about dominance. It was about showing the world, that Cassian Wolfe was upright, unscathed, and still holding the reins of power. It was reputation laundering and power flexing, a theater of war disguised as a black-tie affair.

My driver stepped out and opened the door. I stepped into the chaos.

Immediately, the world turned white. The cameras flashed in a relentless, rapid-fire rhythm. Reporters surged against the velvet ropes, their voices a discordant howl of questions.

"Mr. Wolfe! How are you recovering?"

"Is it true the accident was an assassination attempt?"

"What’s your relationship with Alex Hendrix?"

I didn’t answer. I didn’t even turn my head. I stared straight ahead, my face a mask of cold indifference as I walked the red carpet. My security team flanked me like a phalanx, their bodies creating a moving wall that pushed back the tide of noise.

The doors of the Llotja de Mar swung open, and I stepped into the grandeur of the ballroom. It was magnificent, crystal chandeliers dripping light like diamonds, marble floors polished to a mirror finish, and gold accents that screamed of old-world prestige.

Hundreds of people filled the space, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the low hum of elite conversation. As I entered, the atmosphere shifted.

Conversations stuttered. Heads turned. I could feel the weight of their collective gaze, the investors, the rivals, the socialites, all tracking my movement like I was a glitch in the matrix.

I scanned the room automatically, my eyes performing a tactical sweep. I was looking for threats, for exits, for vulnerabilities.

And then I saw him.

Across the ballroom, standing in a circle of men who looked like they were carved from ice, was Noah.