Chapter 7 – White Noise

" Eva Monroe's Point Of View''

The silence in the mansion wasn’t peaceful. 

It buzzed softly, a low, steady hum that lingered beneath the marble and gold—like there was something off with the wiring, as if the entire house might short-circuit if someone flipped the wrong switch.

I sat alone in the dining room, surrounded by an abundance of chairs but lacking any warmth. The roasted lamb on my plate had turned cold, yet I forced myself to take a bite, just to have something in my stomach. No one joined me. No one ever did.

I could hear laughter coming from upstairs. Probably Harper. I didn’t even bother to wonder if I was the punchline again.

As I walked past the living room, I came to a sudden halt.

Cassian was lounging by the fireplace, stretched out on the leather chaise, with an empty glass hanging loosely from his fingers. The scotch bottle lay tipped over on the rug, oozing amber liquid like blood. The flames flickered across his face, creating sharp shadows that made him appear almost like a stranger—someone who had lost their essence.

He didn’t notice me. Or maybe he did, but simply didn’t care.

I stepped closer. “You’re going to burn the whole house down.”

No answer. 

Just the crackling of firewood filled the air, and I could see the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“Cassian.”

Still, there was no response.

I made my way across the room, knelt down beside him, and reached for the glass. “Come on. Let me help you up.”

But the moment my fingers brushed against his, he flinched back as if I’d shocked him.

“Don’t touch me,” he mumbled, his eyes unfocused. “Not unless you really mean it.”

His words cut through me, not just because of what he said, but the way he said it—fragile, as if he wasn’t accustomed to being touched at all.

“I didn’t mean—”

He cut me off with a humorless laugh. “You never do.”

I didn’t know what he meant. I didn’t know if he knew. But I stood up slowly, walked into the kitchen, and returned with a glass of water and his pain medication—the one he was prescribed after getting that bruised rib from the car crash last week. The one he’d refused to take since the media ran with “Cassian Morrow: Reckless Heir or Suicidal Maniac?”

I placed both on the side table.

He looked at me, his head tilted as if he was trying to decide whether I was actually there or just a figment of his imagination.

“You really should take them,” I said softly.

“Should,” he echoed. “Everyone’s favorite word.”

Then he turned his head away.

I didn’t argue. 

I didn’t stick around.

I left him there—barefoot on the rug, drunk and defiant—and quietly shut the door behind me.

**

Hours slipped by. I tried to dive into a book, but the words just danced on the page. I attempted to catch some sleep, but the mattress felt too plush, like I was sinking into it. Instead, I found myself wandering the hallway, as quiet as a ghost.

When I walked past the living room again, the fire had dwindled to embers. The glass of water remained untouched. So did the pills.

But Cassian… he was staring at them now. Not drinking. Just staring.

I almost knocked, almost went in. But I didn’t. Something told me I shouldn’t.

Instead, I turned away.

**

By morning, he was gone.

I found the glass drained, the pills missing.

For a moment, I let myself believe he’d taken them. That maybe something I did helped.

Then I spotted the shattered photo frame on the floor.

I picked it up carefully, fingers trembling. It was a picture of Cassian as a child, maybe seven or eight. He stood between his father and mother—the only time I’d seen a woman in this house look halfway happy. Cassian’s smile was strained, like he’d been told to hold still or else.

There was a dark fingerprint smeared across the glass.

I turned it over.

A torn piece of envelope was stuck inside. Scrawled in Cassian’s handwriting, jagged and angry:

> “He broke everything. I’m next.”

I pressed my palm over my mouth.

Something about the words… They didn’t just sound drunk or self-pitying. They sounded final.

I bolted from the room.

I stumbled upon him in the greenhouse.

He was lounging on a bench beneath the ferns, his shirt unbuttoned and sleeves drenched. He glanced up as he heard my footsteps approaching.

“What are you doing out here?” I asked, breathless.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“You left that note.”

He didn’t deny it. Just exhaled. “I meant what I said.”

“About your father?”

He gazed out at the glass, its surface glistening with frost. “He used to lock me out here. In winter. Said cold built character. Said I needed to toughen up if I was going to carry the name.”

My stomach twisted in knots. “Oh my God.”

Cassian glanced at me, a mysterious look dancing in his eyes. “I never told anyone that. Not even my mother.”

“Why are you telling me?”

His mouth twisted. “Because you don’t belong here. And somehow, that makes you the only person I trust.”

We sat in silence.

Then he added, almost absently, “He’s not done, you know. My father. He’s still pulling strings.”

I turned toward him. “What do you mean?”

Cassian looked away again.

“He made a deal. With someone. If I don’t fall in line… everything burns.”

He paused.

“But it’s not me he wants to ruin first.”

I froze. “Then who?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Because behind us, footsteps echoed on the stone path.

Then Harper’s voice cut through the air like a blade:

“Well, this explains everything, doesn’t it?”

 Harper just caught us alone together—and she’s about to weaponize what she saw. But more dangerously… How much does she know about the father’s deal? And what exactly is Cassian protecting me from?