Chapter 14 – The Threshold

Eva’s Point of View

The beeping of the monitor was too steady. Too calm.

As if the machines didn’t understand who they were keeping alive.

Cassian lay still, lips pale, the color leeched from his face. The sedatives had taken hold just minutes after the procedure. He hadn’t stirred since. One hand rested gently on his chest, fingers relaxed—

The same hand that once slammed boardroom doors shut or gripped his whiskey glass like he was trying to strangle the world itself.

Now it looked fragile. Almost... young.

I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath until the nurse beside me gently said,

“It went as well as it could have. Now we wait.”

Wait.

I hated that word.

It meant powerlessness. I couldn’t fight. Or fix. Or even argue.

I could only sit. Watch. Pray.

I stood up quietly, brushing a bit of imaginary lint off my blazer. My heels made no sound as I stepped into the hallway.

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Vivienne’s Point of View

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—too bright. Too pristine.

The hallway stretched ahead like a clinical tunnel, filled with the sharp scent of bleach and the echoes of lives that had already faded away.

I stood frozen, gripping a lukewarm coffee I had bought two hours ago but never sipped.

When I caught my reflection in the glass next to the nurse’s station, I looked flawless. Lipstick perfect. No mascara out of place.

The kind of face I’d worn to board meetings, charity galas, press conferences.

But the woman behind it wasn’t composed.

Her eyes were restless, puffy. Full of tension.

The strap of my bag slid off my shoulder, but I didn’t bother to adjust it.

Instead, my fingers tightened around the paper cup. The heat was long gone, but the pressure gave me something to hold onto.

Room 407 was just a few steps away.

A plain door. No guards. No noise.

But I couldn’t move.

I shouldn’t be here.

I had told myself that a hundred times on the flight from New York.

I didn’t belong here.

Not anymore.

Not after the way I left.

Not after the way he—

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Flashbacks

Screeching tires.

My own voice, rising in panic.

Cassian’s, guttural with rage:

“Get the hell away from me!”

Paparazzi flashes. Dozens of them, pressing against the front gate like vultures. One shouted about the “Vale family imploding.”

I had watched Cassian barrel through them, fists flying, security struggling to hold him back.

That night, I locked myself in my room.

Sat on the floor, trembling behind the door, choking back tears I didn’t want to let fall.

My son had become someone I couldn’t reach.

He was a storm with no center.

And I was tired of drowning.

My therapist’s voice came back to me, calm but firm:

“You have to leave, Vivienne. For your health.”

But I didn’t leave. Not right away.

Because he was my child.

Because sometimes—just sometimes—I still saw glimpses of the little boy who used to doze off on my chest.

The one who brought me sticky daisies after shattering my favorite vase.

I tried.

God, I tried.

But Cassian didn’t just lose his way—

He went up in flames. And he took everything down with him.

One night, I found a shard of glass in his room.

Blood smeared across the tiles.

He wouldn’t say a word.

After that, he never looked at me the same again.

Something had broken inside him, and all that fury turned inward.

When I walked away, it wasn’t out of selfishness.

I left because I couldn’t survive inside that house anymore.

Every day I stayed, more pieces of myself slipped away.

Still, I watched from a distance. Quietly. Anonymously.

The staff gave reports. His driver. His assistant.

I even paid a nurse he’d once hired—for updates.

Cassian never knew. He would’ve exploded if he had.

Then came the call.

Lymphoma. Aggressive. Terminal.

He refused treatment.

Twice.

I asked his assistant why.

She only said, “He’s not the kind of man who begs.”

But what kind of man chooses death?

And what kind of mother stands by and lets him?

The guilt hollowed out my gut—an ache that never stopped gnawing.

And now here I was.

Hair pulled back. Heels pinching. Nails manicured.

Perfect on the outside.

But I was shaking inside.

The hallway held its breath.

A nurse passed by and gave me a soft, understanding look. I turned away before she could speak.

It had been nearly three years since I saw him in person.

Three years since I held him.

Since I heard him laugh—

Though he hadn’t laughed much in the years before I left.

What if he didn’t want me here?

What if I walked in and he turned his face to the wall?

What if he told me to leave?

No, not told.

He’d command it.

And honestly—

I don’t think I could survive that.

But deep down, I also knew:

If I left now—if I walked away from this hospital—

I’d never see him again.

Maybe he couldn’t forgive me.

Maybe he would look at me with those hollow, ice-cold eyes I remembered too well.

But at least I’d be able to say I showed up.

I took one step forward.

Just one.

My heart beat so hard it felt like it would crack through my ribs.

The soft click of my heel echoed through the corridor.

I paused again.

I wasn’t ready.

I needed to believe the boy I raised was still in there, somewhere beneath the bruised pride and sorrow.

Beneath the diagnosis he refused to talk about.

I had read the reports. Seen the scans.

I knew it was bad.

I knew time was running out.

But he was still Cassian.

Still my son.

Still mine.

Wasn’t he?

I turned toward the door.

Room 407.

No voices inside.

No movement.

Nothing.

My hand lifted—

Then froze halfway to the knob.

And just like that—

After all this time,

I stood at the threshold of his room,

unsure if I still had the right

to be his mother.

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