Chapter 9: Experimental Gamble

"Eva Monroe's Point Of View''

Cassian began the risky treatment.

I stayed—not because I trusted him, but because I couldn’t walk away.

I told myself I was just dropping off the file. Just checking vitals. Nothing more.

The sharp scent of antiseptic hung in the air as I paced nervously in the hallway outside the treatment room. Each footstep echoed against the tiles—crisp and restless, like a metronome ticking down to a moment I dreaded facing.

It was honestly a bit pathetic, really.

How fast I moved when his body gave out.

In an instant, I was right there by his side, supporting his weight, hitting the emergency button, and shouting for help.

Cassian was now lying there, connected to a jumble of machines.

Still. Small. Too quiet.

But the illusion of vulnerability didn’t last. His eyes opened—steady and alert. Like he’d been waiting for me.

Choosing pain.

Choosing a treatment that had killed three of the last five patients who tried it.

They came fast. Nurses. Machines. Needles.

Panic hung in the air, thick and suffocating like blood.

I stood there, frozen in the corner, my fists so tightly clenched that my nails dug into my palms.

Cassian didn’t scream.

He just gritted his teeth and endured it.

The treatment was brutal. An experimental cocktail with terrifying odds. But he insisted. Demanded it. With that signature Cassian Moreau arrogance, he looked death in the eye—and smirked.

Now he looked like he was unraveling.

And I stayed.

Not because I trusted him. God, no.

But because something in me refused to leave.

Like walking away would be its own kind of death.

I told myself it was for closure. For answers. For control.

But watching him like this—stripped of power and pride—I wasn’t sure anymore.

After hours that felt like days, the machines finally settled into something steady.

Dr. Halvorsen stepped out, peeling off gloves. His face was too neutral to be good.

“How is he?”

My voice broke before I even had a chance to catch it.

“He’s sedated,” the doctor said. “We’ve begun the first sequence.”

There was no going back from here.

I nodded, jaw tight. My hands balled at my sides.

“You should go home,” he added. “There’s nothing for you to do but wait.”

That was the problem.

Waiting felt worse than bleeding.

I stepped into the room anyway.

The overhead lights were dimmed, machines humming like they had secrets. Cassian lay on the narrow bed, tubes running from his arms like parasite veins.

His face looked wrong.

Pale. Hollow. Damp with sweat. Like someone had drained the fight out of him.

But they hadn’t.

He’d chosen this.

He walked in with that fire in his eyes and told the doctors to go ahead. No hesitation.  

No need to second-guess yourself. Just embrace that fierce, unwavering determination.

That was Cassian: always prepared to burn himself if it meant getting control back.

I sat in the corner. Far from him.

But I watched. Every twitch. Every shiver.

I told myself it was just curiosity. A scientist observing a case study in recklessness.

But I was lying.

I didn’t notice when the shaking started—my own. My leg bounced. My jaw clenched tight enough to crack.

This wasn’t about the treatment.

This was about me.

Because if he died—if this risk took him away from me—I’d be left wondering what was truly real between us.

The silence was thick, the kind that made you want to scream just to remind yourself that you were still there. I rose and paced again. My boots clicked against the floor, sharp in the stillness.

Cassian stirred.

I froze.

His eyes cracked open. “You’re still here,” he rasped.

“I had a book,” I lied.

His lips twitched. Almost a smile. “Was it good?”

“Not really. The main character was infuriating.”

“Sounds familiar.”

A beat of quiet passed, warmer than I expected. Then.

“Didn’t think you’d actually stick around,” he said, voice rough.

“Neither did I,” I replied, arms crossed.

“I’m not planning to die.”

I stared at him.

He turned his head toward me. “I know what this looks like. But I’ve survived worse.”

I swallowed. “You say survival is a choice.”

“It is. For people like me, it has to be.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then I make it one.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You always think you can control everything.”

He didn’t argue. Just stared at the ceiling, lost in something else.

“I had someone once,” he said quietly.

I blinked. “What?”

“Someone I failed.”

My breath caught.

Cassian didn’t look at me. “It wasn’t dramatic. One moment he was there. Then he wasn’t. And my father... didn’t handle it well.”

I said nothing. My chest tightened.

“He told me weakness had a price. And I had to learn what that meant.” 

My voice came out softer than I meant. “Is that why you keep pushing people away?”

His jaw flexed. “People break. And when they do, they drag you down with them.”

“Maybe they carry you instead.”

He turned slowly to me. Really looked. “Is that what you’re doing? Carrying me?”

I hesitated. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

His words pressed into me like a weight I didn’t ask for.

He chuckled—or tried to. It came out as a strangled cough. I took a step forward, then stopped myself. No. I wouldn’t pamper him.

“I can guess what’s on your mind,” he said in a rough voice.

“That I’m insane.”

“Not insane,” I said coldly. “Just pathologically self-destructive.”

His eyes fluttered shut, but that smirk still hung around. “Fair.”

Silence again. Not cold. Just... waiting.

“I don’t get you,” I whispered.

He didn’t respond.

“Why this?” I snapped. “Why gamble your life on some unapproved treatment instead of—God, I don’t know—trying something normal?”

“Normal never worked for me,” he murmured.

“And if this doesn’t either?” I stepped closer, heat flaring in my chest. “You die, Cassian. You die and leave behind a mess that I—that everyone—has to clean up.”

“I’m not planning to die.”

That landed.

His jaw clenched, but he held back from saying anything.

It scared me to realize that I was more frightened than he seemed.

I perched on the edge of the bed. Didn’t touch him. Couldn’t. If I did, I might lose the grip on the wall I’d built around myself.

But I looked.

Not the CEO. Not the arrogant billionaire.

Just the man. Tired. Stubborn. Fighting demons no one else could see.

“I was nine when I got pneumonia,” he said suddenly. “Could barely breathe.”

He let out a slow breath. “He locked me in the study and told me that if I wanted to survive, I’d have to earn it.”

The air escaped my lungs.

“He made sure I never forgot,” Cassian said softly.

“I’m not here for therapy,” I said, harsher than intended.

“So no,” he said, voice quiet, “I don’t do normal. I don’t wait. I act. Even if it kills me.”

I wanted to scream. To hit him. Shake some sense into him.

Instead, I whispered, “You’re not him, Cassian.”

His eyes found mine. “Aren’t I?”

That scared me more than anything.

I stood, heart hammering. He was killing himself to prove something—to a dead man.

“You don’t have to be the product of his poison,” I snapped. “You get to choose.”

“I already did.” His voice cracked. “And you’re still here.”

My chest ached.

Damn him.

Damn me.

I was still here.

The door opened. One of the machines started beeping erratically.

“His vitals are spiking,” a nurse shouted. “He’s seizing—!”

Chaos.

Nurses rushed in. One shoved past me.

I stumbled back as Cassian’s body convulsed.

Eyes rolling. Foam at his lips.

“No—Cassian—!”

An alarm screamed.

“Crash cart!”

“1 mg epinephrine—NOW!”

I couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

All I could do was stand there, helpless, as the man I had convinced myself I didn’t care about writhed in front of me. It hit me like a punch to the gut.

 I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to him.

But what if he was already gone?