31 Days

Denizen Verde sat behind an imposing oak desk, the room filled with the trappings of wealth and power. Dark, leather-bound books lined the shelves, and heavy drapes framed the windows, giving the study an air of authority—much like the man himself. Dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, Denizen leaned back in his chair, eyes cold and calculating as he spoke to his daughter, Corvina. She stood before him, arms crossed, her expression a mixture of disbelief and anger.

“And so, it’s decided, Corvina,” Denizen said with an air of finality. “It’s a deal that cannot be ignored. When you turn twenty-two, you and Rune will be married. He will be your husband, so ensure you get your act together before then.”

Corvina’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her face flushed with frustration as she paced across the room, shaking her head in disbelief. Spinning on her heel, she faced him, her voice rising incredulously. “You don’t expect me to accept that, do you? Rune is a sleazebag! He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He’s got multiple girlfriends right now—and you think an arranged marriage to him is the best option?”

Denizen remained unmoved, his expression hardening. He stood slowly, his voice calm but laced with cold pragmatism as he approached her. “He is the son of the eighth-richest man in the country, Corvina. The heir to a multi-million-dollar fortune. Do you understand what that means for us?”

Corvina let out a bitter laugh, taking a step forward. Her voice was thick with sarcasm. “Oh, I know exactly what it means. It means you care more about yourself and your precious money than you ever cared about this family.”

Denizen’s eyes narrowed. His voice turned sharp as he moved closer, towering over her. “This is exactly why I’ve always wanted a son. A son wouldn’t be making such a fuss over something so minor.”

Corvina squared her shoulders, refusing to back down. Her voice hardened with defiance. “If you had a son, he’d still be free to choose who he marries. But you’re taking that away from me. And to make it worse, you’ve picked someone who isn’t even a decent option!”

Denizen turned away, his movements deliberate. He walked toward the window, his back to her as he gazed out over the expansive estate. His voice was calm but heavy with the weight of his words. “The company is under scrutiny, Corvina. Suspicious activity, whispers of corruption. Marrying into the Weford family—into that kind of wealth and influence-will shut down those rumours. It’ll save us from destruction. Unless, of course, you can find someone with the same level of power. Someone willing to pay the same price as Mr Weford to marry you.”

Corvina felt the sting of his words, and her heart pounded with frustration. Tightening her jaw, she slammed her fist onto his desk, causing some of the papers to flutter to the floor. “You can’t be serious!”

Denizen turned to face her again, his expression eerily calm, as if her outburst was nothing more than an inconvenience. “You have one year. One year to find someone else willing to pay as much as Rune Weford for your hand. Otherwise, the deal stands.”

Corvina stared at him, her chest rising and falling with anger. She felt trapped, like a pawn in his grand game of business and power. Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the study, slamming the door behind her.

The room was sterile, a typical doctor’s office with muted tones and an air of quiet professionalism. A man sat in the chair opposite the doctor, his posture slightly tense, betraying the calm he tried to project. His fingers drummed lightly on the armrest as the doctor flipped through a medical file. The doctor, a middle-aged man with greying hair and wire-rimmed glasses, glanced up at him with a calm but serious expression.

“Your results are in,” the doctor began, peering at the man over his glasses. “It seems your condition has worsened since the last time we met. I warned you before—stress can make this much worse.”

The man leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest. His voice was measured and controlled. “I’m aware. I’ve cut back on work. Sylvester handles most of it now.”

The doctor listened, his pen scratching notes on the notepad in front of him. His raised eyebrow hinted at mild scepticism. “That’s good,” he replied, “but stress isn’t the only issue here. We’ve also detected signs of inflammation in your lungs. How often is your house cleaned?”

Unfolding his arms, the man leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “Zar manages all that. She assured me someone comes by to clean twice a week.”

The doctor put down the file, looking directly at him now. “And you’re still not smoking, correct?”

The man shook his head, his voice calm but firm. “No. I quit when you told me to. The family’s been... vigilant about my health. Even the slightest thing gets them on edge. They’re so paranoid, they’re pushing for an heir like it’s some kind of fail-safe.”

The doctor tilted his head, leaning back in his chair. “Interesting,” he said, his voice carrying a thoughtful undertone. “You might want to pay closer attention to your surroundings, though. Your lungs and heart are showing signs of strain—more than I’d expect, even with your history. If this keeps up, you’re heading for an early meeting with death.”

A heavy silence filled the room, the weight of the words lingering in the air. The man didn’t react visibly, his expression unreadable, but his gaze sharpened, hardening ever so slightly. The doctor, sensing the tension, scribbled something on a prescription pad before tearing it off and handing it over.

“Here,” the doctor said, his tone shifting to something gentler. “And, Mr Phoenix...” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Maybe the family has a point about the heir. I know it’s not my place, but if it eases their minds, maybe consider it. Also, don’t forget the meds this time. I know you’re not fond of them, but it’s for the best.”

The man took the prescription, studying it for a brief moment before tucking it into his jacket pocket. He said nothing, his thoughts hidden behind a carefully controlled exterior.

“That’s all for today,” the doctor concluded, his voice quieter now. “Call me immediately if anything changes—anything drastic.”

The man gave a curt nod, rising from the chair in one smooth motion. Without another word, he exited the office, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

As Cassian stepped into the hallway, the cool, sterile air brushed against his skin. His eyes flicked to the prescription in his hand, the paper crinkling between his fingers. His brow furrowed in thought, the doctor’s words still weighing on him.

“I’ve been taking my medication…” he murmured under his breath, the sentence trailing off as his mind wandered. “Come to think of it, I haven’t actually seen anyone cleaning the estate.”

Before he could dwell on the thought, the sharp click of heels echoed down the corridor. Azara appeared beside him, her blonde hair perfectly styled, her expression soft but tinged with concern. She slipped her arm around his without hesitation, looking up at him with an almost pleading gaze.

“Baby... what did the doctor say?” Her voice was laced with worry as she leaned in closer, her eyes quickly glancing at the prescription in his hand. “Is it getting any better?”

Cassian didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained locked on the paper, his mind distant. Azara’s face twisted into a grimace as she noticed the familiar scribbled instructions.

“More pills?” she asked, a hint of disappointment in her tone.

Without looking at her, Cassian spoke, his voice low and detached. “Zar, when was the last time the cleaning service was at the estate?”

Azara frowned, caught off guard by the sudden shift in the conversation. “Yesterday. Why?”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed slightly, his thoughts racing. “I just... never actually saw them. I should speak to the supervisor myself. There are a few things that need to be addressed.”

Azara, ever quick to reassure, squeezed his arm gently, offering a soft smile. “There’s no need. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll handle it for you.”

But Cassian pulled his arm from her grasp, shaking his head as he started to walk away. “No. It’s personal. I want to handle it myself. Get me their contact info by tomorrow.”

Without waiting for her response, he strode down the hallway, his steps purposeful. Behind him, Azara stood still, her hand lingering where his arm had been, her face clouded with concern as she watched him disappear around the corner.