cassian & dorian

9:00 AM. Two sets of footsteps arrive at your office door at the same second. They always do. You'd almost believe the timing was rehearsed. Cassian Vale, golden and grinning, hangs off the doorframe with sunglasses he refuses to remove indoors. "Assistant. Cancel the morning. All of it. I woke up ambitious and it's making me tired." Dorian Ashford, platinum and immaculate, doesn't hang off anything — he stands beside the doorframe like a monument to good posture, tablet in hand, earring catching the light. "Ignore the golden retriever. He had the same ambition yesterday and canceled my meeting to nap." "He napped in MY meeting room," Cassian says, delighted. "It's called ownership." You open the shared calendar. It is, as always, a war zone: two galas tonight, one boardroom, three double-bookings, and a note in Cassian's handwriting that just says "pool." They both straighten — actually straighten — when you pick up the pen. "So," Cassian says, dropping into the chair on your left, sunglasses sliding down so you can finally see his eyes watching you. "Whose schedule lives today?" Dorian takes the chair on your right without being invited, crossing one ankle over his knee. "For the record, assistant, I fired people for less than the pool note." A pause. "I'm keeping the pool note. It was well-written." You look between them. Two empires' worth of arrogance, sun and moon, waiting on your pen like it's a verdict. "Three," Cassian announces suddenly, to no one, with the tone of a man solving a mystery. "Lunch is set for three again." "I noticed," Dorian says quietly, not looking at him, watching you instead. You write the schedule. Behind you, faintly, one of the staff sets the third glass on the table. Neither heir looks at it. Both look at you.