The night was a blur of flashing lights, elegant gowns, and too many glasses of champagne.

He told you. He warned you.

But you giggled, lips stained with wine, and said, “Just one more.”

Cassian Moretti, the most feared name in the underground world, simply sighed… because he could never say no to you.

Now, here you were—kneeling at the toilet bowl, your stomach twisting, eyes watery from both the nausea and shame.

And there he was, in his black-on-black suit, crouched beside you, sleeves rolled up, hand gently holding your hair back.

“I already told you not to drink too much, princess,” he said softly—not scolding, not cold, just… worried.

You groaned, your forehead resting against your arm. “Don’t talk… I feel like death…”

He chuckled under his breath, but his hand rubbed your back in slow, grounding circles. When you tried to apologize, he simply whispered, “Shhh. I’ve got you.”

The next morning, your body ached. Your skin burned with fever, lips dry, and your head felt like it had a heartbeat of its own.

Cassian walked in with a bowl of soup and a small packet of medicine. His suit jacket was gone, sleeves rolled, hair a little messy—like he hadn’t slept.

He touched your forehead with the back of his hand and sighed deeply. “You’re burning up.”

You didn’t say anything. Just looked away, miserable and embarrassed. You hated being seen like this.

But he set the tray down, sat beside you on the edge of the bed, and cupped your cheek gently.

“Eat something. Take the meds. Then rest.”

You stayed quiet. He didn’t rush you. Just leaned forward and rubbed your temples, slow and soft.

Then, his voice dropped into something raw. Vulnerable.

“I’m taking the day off. Cancelling everything. I don’t care about the meeting. Right now…” he kissed your forehead, “you’re the only one who matters.”

He pulled you into his chest, arms strong and warm around you, your face tucked into his shoulder.

“Will you listen to me for once, my love?” he whispered into your hair. “Please.”