Chapter 13– Blood and Inheritance

Cassian's Point of View

She didn't expect me to say yes.

The doctor had barely finished listing the side effects when I leaned back in the stiff vinyl chair and said, “Do it.” No fanfare. No second thoughts. I didn’t even glance at Eva.

She should’ve looked proud. Vindicated. Instead, she just looked tired. Like she'd been bracing for something else.

But I wasn't being brave. I was just done pretending.

I signed the forms with the same hand I used to close nine-figure deals across glass-topped tables. That hand used to be steady. Now, it shook.

By the second day, the treatment started to hit. First came the nausea. Then the fever. Every sound felt too loud. My own skin felt like it didn’t fit right.

Eva stayed.

I never asked her to.

She just kept showing up. Wearing old sweaters, hair tied back, a book always in hand. She didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t push. She just sat beside me like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Chapter six?” she asked one morning, her voice soft but steady.

I couldn’t speak. My throat was dry, and my lips were split. So I nodded. That was enough for her.

Her voice was the only thing that cut through the fog. It was something I could latch onto when the rest of the world felt like it was falling away.

By day five, the vultures started circling.

Headlines blared across screens:

“Cassian Vale Begins Trial for Terminal Illness”

“Cold CEO Goes Human?”

“Vale Corp Stock Dips 4.7% in Pre-Market After Health Bombshell”

A nurse passed by my door, whispering into her phone. I heard every word.

“Yes, his sister’s been informed,” she said. “She’s—” A pause. “No, not calm. Screaming. She wants to fly in tonight.”

I didn’t flinch. But my fingers twitched once against the blanket. Just once.

Eva didn’t say anything. She looked out the window instead. There was a smudge on the glass. A fingerprint. Probably mine.

The real noise came in whispers. Boardroom panic. Lawyers scrambling.

“No contingency plan.”

“No heir.”

“If he dies, we lose control.”

I didn’t say anything. But later, when they left, I shattered the remote against the floor. My knuckles bled. No one mentioned it.

No one except her.

“You can leave,” I told Eva one night, without looking at her.

“I know,” she said.

But she didn’t.

The interview was my idea.

PR wanted a prepared statement. Something bland. Safe. But I wanted the world to see it. No filters. No spin.

I wore a tailored black suit that didn’t fit right anymore. My collar sagged. My bones stuck out like scaffolding.

The journalist asked, “What changed your mind about treatment?”

I hesitated. Just long enough for the silence to say too much.

Then I answered, “Eva did. She reminded me there’s still something worth fighting for.”

Social media exploded. Investors panicked. Everyone had an opinion.

But from where I sat, all I could feel was the weight in my chest. The way my fingers clenched the armrest. The small tremor behind my left eye I couldn’t quite stop.

I wasn’t being noble.

I was surviving.

At night, she read to me.

Sometimes I drifted off mid-sentence. Other times, I listened until the words blurred. She kept reading even when I was out cold. Maybe it was for me. Maybe it was for her.

Silence made the room feel like a coffin. Her voice kept it human.

By the eighth night, I didn’t ask for the book.

I just lay there. Breathing like it hurt.

She reached over to fix the blanket, and my hand moved without thinking. I curled my fingers around hers.

Not tight.

Just there.

She froze.

So did I.

But she didn’t pull away.

The heat of her skin steadied something inside me. Maybe it was fever. Or maybe it was fear.

I looked at her.

And for the first time in a long time, I let her see it.

All of it.

She didn’t run.

Morning came.

The nurse knocked and came in with a file. She smiled like she was handing out candy.

“Good news,” she chirped. “The treatment’s responding faster than expected—”

Then her eyes fell to our hands.

Still tangled. Still holding.

She didn’t comment. Just left the file and backed out.

I didn’t let go.

Neither did Eva.

And that moment—that single, quiet moment—might have been the start of something I didn’t know I needed.

Or maybe just the end of everything I thought I deserved.