His Uncle's Priceless Jewel: Unmasking His Regret

Thalassa POV: I woke up the same way I did every morning, which was to say I woke up alone in a big king bed, in a room that was technically mine but never really felt like it, in a house so big you could get lost trying to find the kitchen if you weren't paying attention. The Deveraux mansion. Home to the family that owned half the city and acted like they deserved the other half just for breathing with them. I stretched my arms above my head and stared at the ceiling, which had these hand-painted little angels on it that some Italian guy spent six months creating back when the house was built. Cassian's great-grandfather had commissioned them. Now they just looked down at me every morning with their blank little eyes, judging me for still being here. My phone buzzed. Six thirty in the morning. No messages, of course. There was never anyone to message. My mother had passed when I was seventeen and my father had followed her three years later, like he couldn't figure out how to ex

Cassian POV: I woke up blind again today, which was getting really old really fast. Not that I remembered what it was like to wake up with sight anymore. Eight months of darkness will do that to you, erase the memory of what light even looks like until you start to wonder if you ever really saw anything at all or if your brain just made the whole thing up. But I remembered how it felt to open your eyes and have the world just be there, waiting for you, no effort required. I remembered that feeling, and I missed it with an ache that never really went away no matter how many times I told myself to get used to it, adapt, move on, all that garbage people say when they have no idea what they're talking about. My hand shot out to the nightstand and slapped around until it found the phone. I pressed the button and waited for the robotic voice to tell me the time. "Eight thirty two AM," it said, in that cheerful tone that made me want to throw the phone against the wall. Eight thirty two

Thalassa POV: I spent the rest of the morning in my little hidden room, trying very hard not to think about Elara Vance performing my surgery on my husband downstairs, and failing completely. Every time I tried to focus on something else the patient files on my laptop, the outline for my next book, the grocery list I kept meaning to send to Margaret because we were almost out of the good tea my brain just circled right back to it. Elara Vance. My surgery. Cassian's eyes. All of it tangled together in this knot that I couldn't seem to untie no matter how many times I told myself it didn't matter. But it did matter. That was the problem. I pulled up Cassian's medical files on my secure server. I'd hacked into the hospital system months ago, back when he first got injured, because even though we weren't really married in any meaningful sense, he was still technically my husband and I still had that thing doctors have where we want to fix people even when they don't want us to. I'd be

THALASSA'S POV: But here was the problem. Cassian was blind. He could not read his own emails. Someone else would have to read them to him. His lawyer, his assistant, his father, someone. That meant my message would pass through other hands before it reached his ears. That was risky. But I could not exactly call him on the phone and say hey, blind husband, it is me, your secret doctor wife, want me to poke around in your eyeballs? So I had to be smart about it. I started typing, drafting a message that would go through many layers of encryption and end up in Cassian's inbox, where his personal assistant, a man named Mr. Hale who handled all his correspondence, would read it aloud to him. Dear Mr. Deveraux, I understand you are seeking treatment for your optical condition. I have reviewed your files and believe I can help. My success rate with this specific injury is one hundred percent. If you are interested in a consultation, please respond to this message and I will provide fur

THALASSA'S POV:At seven thirty, I slipped out of the house through a side door that nobody ever used. It led to the garden, and from there to a small gate that opened onto a back alley. I had arranged for a car to pick me up around the corner, a boring gray sedan driven by a man who did not ask questions because I paid him enough to mind his own business. I changed in the back seat, trading my plain dress for surgical scrubs, pulling my hair back into a tight bun, adjusting my mask to the medical version I used for procedures. It was similar to my everyday mask but more clinical, with better coverage and a more professional look. Less flower paintings, more sterile white.By the time we reached the hospital, I was Dr. Miravel, visiting specialist, here to perform a routine but delicate procedure on a very important patient. I took a deep breath, checked that my mask was secure, and walked inside.The hospital was busy, because hospitals are always busy, full of people with their own