Chapter 11:
Zurich lay still beneath a fresh fall of snow, but Eden's mind was a storm.
Cassian's hand had found hers in the dark—warm, steady, a promise.
But daylight?
Daylight brought no vows.
When she woke, the bed was cold. Empty. No note. No whisper of where he'd gone.
Just silence.
She dressed quickly—grey cashmere, black jeans—and moved barefoot across the marble floor, drawn by a voice echoing down the hall.
Cassian. On a call.
She paused at the study door.
"I don't care if Malik thinks he's already won," he snapped. "File the injunction. Freeze the accounts. Take back Berlin. And get me Verena. Now."
Verena.
The name hit her like a bruise.
Eden turned away, pulse quickening. If Verena was still in play... was she still just a piece on the board?
An hour later, he found her curled by the fire. A book lay forgotten in her lap.
"You overheard," he said quietly.
Eden didn't look away. "She's still involved?"
Cassian leaned against the doorframe. "Always was. But not how you think. Verena helped Malik push the vote. I have the proof."
"You're going to use her?"
"I'm going to end her."
Eden stood. Slowly. "What happens when you run out of enemies, Cassian? What's left of you then?"
His expression didn't change. "Whatever I have to be."
She stepped closer. "You're forgetting something."
"What?"
"That power without purpose is just destruction."
He crossed the room and cupped her jaw. His voice dropped. "Then give me a reason to be more."
Her reply was soft. Wounded. "I already did."
That evening, they flew to Athens.
One of Cassian's oldest strongholds. A cliffside estate of white stone and hidden security. Fewer eyes. Fewer risks.
But Eden knew better.
This wasn't safety. It was the eye of the storm.
As staff prepared the villa, she wandered into a forgotten room—dusty and dim.
The old music room.
A grand piano sat in the corner, veiled in time. She lifted the lid and pressed one ivory key.
A soft, broken note.
It sounded like memory.
She sat. And played. A lullaby her mother used to hum when the world felt kind.
Cassian found her there after dinner. He didn't speak. Just listened.
When the final note faded, he asked, "What was that?"
"A song for the unnamed," she said. "For the version of me I lost."
He stepped forward. "Then let me name her again. Let me remind you who you are."
She met his gaze. "And who are you, Cassian? Without the empire. Without the war."
He came closer. "Yours. If you'll have me."
That night, they didn't sleep.
They talked.
About ghosts from childhood. Regrets they didn't have the courage to name. Dreams long buried.
In the spaces between stories, they touched—like confessions. Slow. Careful. Honest.
For once, it felt real.
Until her phone buzzed just before sunrise.
A blocked number. One line of text:
He's lying to you. Check the red folder. —V
Verena.
Her blood turned cold.
Quietly, she slipped from bed, his arm still warm where it had held her. She crept barefoot into the study.
The drawer was locked. But barely.
Inside: a red folder.
She opened it.
Legal contracts. Photographs. A signed document with her name on it.
Eden Blake – Power of Attorney
Executed weeks ago. Under false pretenses.
It wasn't just love.
Cassian had planned to use her—her name, her face, her public image. If the board had gone differently, she would've become his legal proxy.
She would've carried his empire.
Whether she agreed to or not.
She didn't wake him.
She left a note on the pillow.
"You said you loved me. But you never asked if I could carry your crown."
Then she walked out.
No bags.
Just her passport.
Her phone.
And the sharp, fragile hope that somewhere out there, a version of Eden Blake still existed—one untouched by Cassian Wolfe's war.
Cassian woke to cold sheets.
The villa was too quiet.
He saw the note.
Read it once.
Then again.
And again.
He crushed the paper in his fist like it had teeth.
Outside, the wind howled over the white cliffs.
And somewhere far from Athens, far from Wolfe Global, Eden Blake disappeared into the unknown.