Chapter 12 – Cassandra
Nausea slammed into me like a freight train.
One second, I was sleeping, Drew’s arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my neck. The next, my stomach coiled violently, and I was shooting upright in bed, heart pounding, bile rising in my throat.
I barely made it to the bathroom before I was on my knees, emptying what little remained in my stomach into the toilet. The cold tile pressed against my skin, grounding me while my body rebelled against itself. Again. This was the third time in two days.
“Cassandra?”
Drew’s voice came from the doorway, rough with sleep and concern. I didn’t look up. Couldn’t. I was too busy trying to remember how to breathe through the waves of nausea still rolling through me.
When I finally wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, I found him standing there—shirtless, arms folded across his chest, brows furrowed in that way that made him look dangerous and worried at the same time.
“You need to see a doctor,” he said.
I shook my head, pushed myself up on shaky legs. “We fly out today.”
“Cassandra—”
“I said we fly out today.” I moved past him toward the sink, avoiding his eyes in the mirror. “I’m fine. Just something I ate.”
“You’ve been sick twice since yesterday.”
“Food poisoning.”
“Bullshit.”
I splashed cold water on my face, let it shock some clarity back into my system. When I looked up, he was still standing there, jaw clenched, watching me like I was a problem he couldn’t solve.
“Drop it, Drew.”
“No.”
“I don’t have time for this.” I grabbed a towel, pressed it against my face. “Rafael’s expecting us back. I have work. You have—”
“I don’t give a fuck about Rafael right now.” He moved closer, his hand coming up to touch my forehead. “You’re pale. You’re sick. And you’re not getting on that plane until you tell me what’s going on.”
I wanted to push him away. Wanted to build my walls back up and pretend last night hadn’t happened, that he hadn’t touched me like I was something precious, that I hadn’t whispered his name like it was the only word I knew.
But I was so tired. Tired of lying. Tired of pretending. Tired of carrying all these secrets alone.
“It’s nothing,” I said quietly. “Just stress. Too much travel, not enough sleep. It’ll pass.”
His eyes searched mine, and I could see him weighing my words, deciding whether to push or let it go. Finally, he stepped back.
“We leave in two hours,” he said. “Pack light. And if you get sick on the plane, I’m taking you straight to a hospital.”
“Fine.”
He walked out, and I sagged against the sink, gripping the porcelain until my knuckles went white.
***
The flight back was torture.
I’d curled up in the co-pilot seat, face pressed against the cold window, eyes closed, trying to will my stomach into submission. Drew said nothing, just flew the plane with a clenched jaw and white-knuckled controls.
Every bump of turbulence made me swallow hard against rising bile. Every dip in altitude sent my stomach lurching. But I held it together. Barely.
“Almost there,” Drew said quietly, and I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or himself.
When Chicago appeared below us—all steel and glass and sharp edges—relief flooded through me. Home. Or at least the closest thing I had to one.
The landing was smooth. Drew always landed smooth, like he could make the plane do anything he wanted with nothing but will and precision. As soon as the wheels touched down, I was unbuckling, ready to bolt.
My car was waiting on the tarmac. I grabbed my bag and headed for it, already planning the shower I’d take, the bed I’d collapse into, the hours of sleep that might make this constant exhaustion go away.
Drew’s hand closed around my arm.
“You’re not going home,” he said.
I turned to face him. “Excuse me?”
“You’re staying at my place.”
“The hell I am.”
His grip tightened slightly, not painful but firm. Immovable. “You can barely stand, Cassandra. You’re sick. You’re exhausted. And I’m not letting you go back to an empty apartment where you’ll push yourself until you collapse.”
“I don’t need—”
“I don’t care what you need.” His eyes were steel. “You’re coming with me. That’s not a request.”
I should have fought him. Should have pulled my arm free and told him to go fuck himself. But the truth was, I didn’t have the strength. My body felt like it belonged to someone else—heavy, uncooperative, barely functional.
So I sighed. Defeated. “Fine.”
“Good.”
He guided me to his car, one hand on the small of my back like he thought I might fall over. Maybe I would have. The world felt tilted, off-balance, like gravity had shifted, and I couldn’t quite find solid ground.
The drive to his place was a blur. I leaned my head against the window, watched Chicago slide past in streaks of gray and gold, and tried not to think about how badly I’d fucked everything up.
When we got to his apartment, I barely made it through the door before my legs gave out. Drew caught me, lifted me like I weighed nothing, and carried me to his bed.
“Sleep,” he said, pulling the covers over me.
I didn’t argue. Just closed my eyes and let the darkness take me.
***
I slept the entire day. Then the entire night. When I finally woke up, the apartment was silent and empty, sunlight streaming through the windows in harsh afternoon angles.
Drew was gone. Work, probably. Or maybe he’d finally gotten sick of playing nursemaid to a woman who couldn’t keep her shit together.
I sat up slowly, testing my body. The nausea was gone, thank God, replaced by a hollow emptiness in my stomach that felt almost normal. My head was clearer too, though the exhaustion still clung to my bones like lead.
I got up, found one of Drew’s shirts in the closet, and pulled it on. It smelled like him—clean soap and something darker, something that made my chest ache in ways I didn’t want to examine.
In the kitchen, I made coffee. Strong. Black. The kind that could wake the dead. Then I sat at his table and let myself think about the things I’d been avoiding for days.
Seattle. Father Vincent. The truth I’d been running from my entire life.
I closed my eyes and remembered sitting across from him in that cramped office at the orphanage, surrounded by boxes of donation records and old photographs.
“I need to know,” I’d said. “Everything. How I got here. Who brought me. Why.”
Father Vincent had looked older than I remembered, his face lined with years of carrying other people’s secrets. He’d sighed, pulled out a file, and slid it across the desk.
“A Russian man brought you,” he’d said. “January 1997. You were five years old. He said he’d found you alone on a snowy road, no parents, no explanation. Just you in a red coat, clinging to a stuffed bear.”
I’d stared at the file, hands shaking. “What else?”
“You kept saying you were waiting for your daddy to come back. That his name was David. You couldn’t remember anything else—not your last name, not where you lived, nothing. Just your name and his.”
David. My father. The man I’d spent sixteen years trying to remember, trying to piece together from fragments and dreams and the ghost of a feeling I couldn’t quite name.
“The Bratva,” I’d whispered. “They funded the orphanage.”
Father Vincent had nodded slowly. “Monthly donations. Enough to keep us running, keep the lights on, keep children like you fed and clothed. They never said why. Never asked for anything in return. Just…paid.”
I’d felt something crack inside me then. Because it made sense in the worst possible way. The Bratva had been funding my childhood. Disguising their involvement quietly, strategically, making sure I survived while burying whatever truth had put me on that snowy road in the first place.
They’d killed my father. I was sure of it now. Killed him and left me behind, then paid for my silence without me even knowing I had something to be silent about.
The coffee had gone cold in my hands. I set it down, pressed my palms against my eyes, and tried not to cry.
Then I thought about the other meeting. The one that made my skin crawl even in memory.
Vance.
We’d met at a different club, one far enough from the orphanage that no one would connect the dots. He’d been waiting in a private booth, drink already in hand, that predatory smile on his face that made me want to run.
“Why the fuck is the Bratva still standing?” he’d asked before I’d even sat down.
“I’m doing everything I can,” I’d said, sliding into the booth across from him. “Setting traps, delaying shipments, poking holes in their logistics. It takes time.”
“Time.” He’d laughed, cold and sharp. “I’ve given you two years, Cassandra. Two years of intel, two years of protection, two years of watching you play double agent. And what do I have to show for it?”
“Dead weight,” I’d snapped. “Beaumont’s organization collapsed. Joaquin’s networks are in shambles. The Bratva’s lost millions in deals that mysteriously fell through. What more do you want?”
“I want the Kamarovs.” He’d leaned forward, eyes glinting with something dark and hungry. “I want Rafael brought to his knees. I want their empire burned to the ground. That’s what I want.”
My hands had clenched under the table. “I’ve already buried myself neck-deep. I’ve risked everything—my life, my sanity. I wake up every morning terrified that Rafael will put a bullet in my head. What more do you expect from me?”
“More.” His voice had dropped to something dangerous. “Always more. Because that’s what you owe, sweetheart. For what they did to your father. For what they took from you.”
I’d wanted to scream at him then. Wanted to tell him that I didn’t even remember my father, that I was avenging a ghost, that every day I spent lying to Rafael felt like carving pieces out of my own soul.
But I’d just nodded. Swallowed the rage and the guilt and the fear. “I’ll get you what you need.”
“Good girl.” He’d finished his drink. “And Cassandra? Don’t forget—you’re only useful to me as long as you’re producing results. The moment you stop….” He’d trailed off, let the threat hang in the air like smoke.
I’d left that meeting feeling dirty. Used. Like I’d sold my soul for a revenge I wasn’t even sure I wanted anymore.
A key turned in the lock, jolting me back to the present.
Drew walked in, carrying bags of what smelled like takeout. When he saw me sitting at the table, something in his expression softened.
“You’re up,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Feeling better?”
“Yeah.”
He set the bags down, came over to where I was sitting. His hand came up to my forehead, checking for fever like he had any idea what he was doing. The gesture was so tender it made my throat tight.
“You scared me,” he said quietly.
“I’m fine, Drew.”
“You’re not fine. You haven’t been fine since Seattle. Maybe longer.” His thumb brushed across my temple. “Talk to me.”
I looked up at him, at this man who’d somehow worked his way under my skin, who made me feel safe and terrified in equal measure.
“I’m fine, I promise,” I whispered.
His jaw clenched. I could see the war happening behind his eyes—the part of him that wanted to push, to demand answers, to tear down my walls until nothing was left hidden. But instead, he just nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
He pulled me up, wrapped his arms around me, and I buried my face in his chest. Let myself have this one moment of peace before everything inevitably fell apart.
Because it would fall apart. It always did.
And when it did, I’d lose everything.
Including him.