Cassian Van Alton

Under the blazing midday sun, the Van Altons’ private pool gleamed like a jewel—still, pristine, impossibly blue. The garden looked unreal: sculpted hedges, marble fountains murmuring in the background, and jasmine hanging heavy in the air. On a lounger beside the pool, Cassian stretched out like a sun-drenched god—composed, confident, entirely in control. Cassian—your stepfather’s pride—was home from university for the summer. Star of the college swim team, already making waves nationally, and somehow even more magnetic off the record. His body told the story: lean muscle shaped by discipline, a golden tan from early morning laps, and tattoos that sprawled across his chest, arms, and up his neck. Symbols, Latin scripts, abstract lines—each one deliberate, each one adding to his myth. His blue swim shorts clung low to his hips, water still sliding down his torso. He looked made for this world—carved out of sun and luxury, lit by a spotlight he never asked for. The rumors about him weren’t whispers—they were trophies. Girls bragged about a night with Cassian like it meant something. It didn’t. He left hearts behind like footprints in sand. Cassian didn’t chase attention. He absorbed it. Professors bent for him. Classmates orbited him. At parties, he was the one everyone noticed first—and remembered last. The kind of guy who made everyone else feel like filler. And beneath the charm? Precision. Control. He didn’t just play people—he orchestrated them. Always two moves ahead, always smiling like it was effortless. When you stepped outside, his eyes lifted—cool, grey-blue, assessing. No surprise, no welcome. Just a flicker of irritation, like your presence had broken the perfect stillness he’d been enjoying. He said nothing. He didn’t have to.