The Blind Heir

Cassian POV:

Her footsteps retreated, soft on the hardwood floor, and then she was gone. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding and reached for the coffee cup that had magically appeared in front of me.

Margaret's voice came from somewhere near the kitchen door. "She's just trying to help, Mr. Cassian."

"I didn't ask for her help."

"She's your wife."

"She's a stranger who happens to live in my house." I took a sip of coffee, burned my tongue, swore under my breath. "A stranger who wears a mask and hides in her room and never tells anyone anything about herself. You want me to feel bad for her? Fine. I feel bad for her. But I don't want her hovering over me like some kind of nurse."

Margaret didn't say anything else, which was fine by me. I wasn't in the mood for lectures from the staff about how I should treat my wife. They didn't know the situation. They didn't know why we'd gotten married, what the arrangement was, how little either of us had wanted it. They just saw a blind man being mean to his wife and made their own judgments.

Let them judge. I had bigger problems.

Like the fact that I couldn't see my own breakfast and had to feel around the plate to figure out what was there. Eggs, I guessed from the texture. Toast. Something that might have been bacon but could also have been sausage. I ate without tasting any of it, my mind already on the appointment later that morning.

Another specialist. Another round of tests. Another doctor who would look at my file, shake their head, and tell me there was nothing they could do. I'd been through it so many times I could practically recite the script. "The damage is extensive, Mr. Deveraux. We've made some progress, but we can't promise anything. These things take time. You need to be patient."

Patient. I was so patient I was going to scream.

After breakfast I let James lead me to the study, where I spent most of my days now. It was easier than trying to do anything useful. The company ran itself, or at least it ran well enough without me. My father had taken over most of my responsibilities, and my uncle Alaric had stepped in to handle the rest, which was its own special kind of humiliation. Alaric, the black sheep, the one who'd left the family to build his own empire, now had to come back and clean up after his nephew like I was a child who couldn't be trusted with the family business.

I hated it. I hated all of it.

The study smelled like old books and leather, the same smell it had had since I was a kid sneaking in here to read when I was supposed to be doing homework. I knew where everything was, more or less, which meant I could spend a few hours pretending to work before lunch.

I was dictating emails to the voice recognition software when James came back.

"The specialist is here, sir. Dr. Elara Vance. Shall I show her in?"

"Obviously. That's why she's here."

James's footsteps retreated, and a few minutes later I heard new footsteps, lighter than his, with the click of heels on hardwood.

"Mr. Deveraux." A woman's voice, professional and warm. "I'm Dr. Vance. Thank you for seeing me."

"I didn't have much choice. My father arranged it."

A small pause, like she was deciding how to respond to that. "Your father was very insistent. He speaks highly of you."

"My father speaks highly of his investments. I'm one of them."

She didn't laugh, which I respected. Most people laughed nervously when I said things like that, not sure how to handle my particular brand of bitterness. She just moved closer, and I heard her set something down on the desk.

"I've reviewed your file extensively," she said. "The initial injury, the surgeries, the recovery attempts. You've been through a lot."

"You have no idea."

"Actually, I do. I've treated dozens of patients with similar injuries. I understand the frustration, the anger, the feeling that your life has been taken away from you."

I turned my head toward her voice, wishing I could see her face, read her expression, figure out if she was genuine or just saying what she thought I wanted to hear. "Can you fix me?"

Another pause. Longer this time.

"I believe so," she said. "There's a procedure, relatively new, that has shown remarkable success in cases like yours. It's risky, and the recovery is intensive, but if it works, you'll see again."

My heart actually stopped for a second. Just froze in my chest, then started beating again so hard I could feel it in my throat.

"What kind of procedure?"

She explained it. Medical terms I barely understood, references to techniques I'd never heard of, descriptions of success rates that sounded too good to be true. I listened to all of it, and somewhere in the middle I realized I was gripping the arms of my chair so hard my fingers hurt.

"How many times have you done this?" I asked when she finished.

"Eighteen times. Eighteen successes."

"Eighteen." I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. "And you think it'll work on me?"

"I think there's a very good chance. Nothing in medicine is guaranteed, Mr. Deveraux. But this is the best option you have."

I sat there in the darkness, and for the first time in eight months, I felt something that might have been hope.

"When can we do it?"

"As soon as you're ready. I'll need to run some tests first, confirm that you're a candidate, but if everything looks good, we could schedule it for next week."

Next week. I could see again next week. I could open my eyes and look at the world and see it for the first time in eight months.

I could see my wife's mask.

The thought came out of nowhere and I pushed it away immediately. I didn't care about her mask. I cared about seeing the sky, seeing my own hands, seeing my father's face when I walked into a room without someone guiding me. I cared about being normal again.

"Run your tests," I said. "Do whatever you need to do. Just fix me."

Dr. Vance's voice was calm and sure when she answered. "I will, Mr. Deveraux. I promise."

After she left, I sat in the study for a long time, just breathing, just feeling the hope expanding in my chest like something alive. I thought about all the things I'd do when I could see again. All the places I'd go. All the people I'd see.

I thought about my wife, and what she looked like under that mask. I'd never asked. Never wanted to know. But now, suddenly, I was curious.

Just curious. That's all it was.

I called for James and told him to find out everything he could about Dr. Elara Vance. If she was going to operate on me, I wanted to know who she really was.

I had no idea that question was about to blow up my entire life in ways I couldn't even imagine. But that's the thing about hope, I guess. It makes you stupid. It makes you think everything's going to work out fine.

It makes you forget that some things, once broken, can never really be fixed.