Cassandra never meant to hijack a royal gala.
She'd meant to crash it, sure. Maybe spill some sparkling wine on a duchess. Deliver a speech about dismantling oligarchies. But hijack?
That part kind of just… happened.
It started with the goat.
Three hours earlier…
Julian adjusted his bowtie for the fourth time in the mirror.
"I look like a Bond villain," he muttered.
Cassandra slid into the room in a black silk gown with a thigh slit so criminal it might get arrested in Monaco. "You are a Bond villain. Just the sexy kind who turns on his evil family and runs off with the heiress-slash-hacker who torched the world."
Julian stared. "I have no idea what you just said, but I want you to say it again. In French. Naked."
She blew him a kiss. "Focus, darling. We have a gala to sabotage."
The Foundation Gala was an exclusive nightmare of diamonds, plastic smiles, and enough generational wealth to make God roll His eyes.
Julian and Cassandra walked in like nothing was on fire—because technically, it wasn't. Yet.
"Is that Countess Valenko?" Cassandra whispered, sipping champagne. "Didn't she fund brainwashing algorithms for infants?"
"Allegedly," Julian said, already stealing her shrimp skewer.
Cassandra scanned the room. "We need a distraction. Something wild. Something dramatic."
Julian blinked.
"I might've brought a goat."
She turned to him slowly.
"You. Brought. A goat."
"His name is Winston. He's housebroken. Mostly."
Before she could scream—or laugh herself to death—Winston trotted in from the garden patio…wearing a velvet cape and a golden bow tie.
Cassandra lost it.
"He's dignified," Julian said proudly.
"He's eating a floral centerpiece."
The chaos escalated with shocking speed.
Someone screamed.
The goat climbed onto a buffet table.
A senator fainted into the salmon platter.
And in the middle of it all, Cassandra grabbed the mic from the band.
"Good evening, parasites—I mean, patrons!"
Gasps.
"I just wanted to thank you for proving that even when you commit crimes against humanity, you'll still show up for caviar."
A glass shattered somewhere in the back.
Julian leaned against the piano, sipping champagne, calm as sin.
"I'm Cassandra Beaumont-Ashford," she continued. "Billionaire by birth, rebel by choice, and extremely overdressed for this cult gathering."
The goat bleated in agreement.
They were politely escorted out.
"By 'escorted,' I mean chased," Julian said, ducking a flying hors d'oeuvre.
"Worth it," Cassandra yelled, running barefoot across the courtyard with her heels in one hand and the goat leash in the other.
"You're insane," Julian told her once they'd made it to the car.
"And you're in love with me."
He grinned. "Terrifyingly so."
Later that night, in their suite at the penthouse, Julian poured them both a drink while Cassandra soaked in a marble tub surrounded by candles and leftover shrimp skewers they stole from the gala.
"You realize we're probably banned from every high-society event for life," he said.
She raised her glass from the bubbles. "Finally. Some good news."
Winston bleated from the balcony.
Julian sighed. "He's on the hot tub cover again."
"I taught him that. He's thriving."
Julian leaned in, kissed her forehead. "You're a menace."
"And you're my accomplice."
He whispered against her lips, "Always."
And then she yanked him into the tub.
Fully clothed.