The hospital corridor was silent, except for the faint sound of footsteps and the rhythmic beeping of a monitor. Casandra sat on the bed, her long hair cascading down her shoulders, her pale face framed in the weak morning light. The doctor had just left after another check-up, his words echoing in her mind.

“Your condition is delicate, Ms. Casandra. Please avoid stress.”

She smiled faintly, her lips curling with bitter amusement. Delicate, he said — as if she hadn’t been using that same fragility as her shield for weeks.

She reached for her phone and stared at the message from Adrian:

> “I’ll visit later. Don’t strain yourself.”

Her...