The carriage rumbled through the night, its wheels a relentless drumbeat against the cobblestone streets, the world outside a blur of shadows and fleeting lamplight.

Diana sat pressed against the cushioned seat, her graceful composure undone by a visceral panic that clawed at her chest. Her dark eyes, usually pools of serene wisdom, flickered with urgency as she urged the driver to hasten, her voice sharp with desperation, barely audible over the clatter of hooves.

“Could you go faster, sir? It’s a matter of urgency and I need to be back home as soon as possible.”

The driver, sensing her distress, complied without hesitation, his whip cracking to spur the horses into a frenzied gallop.

Diana’s plump chest rose and fell in erratic motion, the soft swell of her cleavage glistening with sweat in the moonlight filtering through the window. Her fingers, trembling, fished a handkerchief from her sleeve, and she dabbed at her flushed face, the fabric gliding over her cheeks, her neck, then lower, brushing the damp curve of her chest where perspiration had gathered, lending her an unwittingly erotic sheen.

The exertion of her sprint through the hospital lingered in her limbs, a rare strain for a body unaccustomed to such frantic motion.

Years had passed since she’d last run with such frenzy, chasing doctors across the continent in a desperate bid to save her daughter, Vivi.

Now, the same primal instinct drove her, ignited by the news of Young Master Cassius’s unannounced arrival at her home.

To her, Cassius was a beacon of hope, a noble who’d shared medical knowledge freely, who’d eased Vivi’s suffering when no one else could, whose generosity had bolstered her hospital and saved countless lives. And if anyone knew that, they would’ve surely welcomed his visit, revering him as a saint gracing their doorstep.

But Diana’s heart churned with dread, her mind haunted by the duality of the man.

Like a coin, Cassius bore two faces: one radiant with benevolence, the other veiled in shadow, a darkness only she had glimpsed.

Her eyes shimmered with unease, her thoughts tangled in the enigma of his character.

The rumors of debauchery, of a depraved noble who preyed on women’s innocence, who reveled in nightly excesses—were neither wholly true nor entirely false, a paradox that defied her understanding. And as she recalled their past, a flush crept up her cheeks, her panting breaths and sweat-slicked skin casting her in an erotic light, her body a canvas of fear and forbidden memories.

Her mind drifted to that first encounter, a month prior, when Cassius had descended upon her mansion like a storm, unstoppable and unsettling. The memory was sharp, etched in a blend of terror and defiance.

She’d been in her study, surrounded by medical texts, when a servant had burst in, face pale with alarm, announcing Cassius’s arrival and his desire to see Vivi. The news had struck her like a physical blow, her heart seizing with a mother’s primal fear.

Cassius, the reclusive noble whose name carried both awe and dread, had never crossed her threshold before. The rumors about him were a relentless tide, painting him as a monster who’d shed his former reclusiveness for something darker—a depraved noble who stole women, who orchestrated orgies in his shadowed estate, whose appetites knew no bounds.

Parents wielded his name as a threat, mothers warning daughters of nightly abductions, fathers decrying him as a disgrace to humanity.

Diana, ever rational, had prided herself on dismissing gossip, grounding her judgments in evidence. But as a mother, she couldn’t ignore the danger.

Vivi, though frail and bedridden, was a girl of beauty, her delicate features and keen intellect drawing suitors despite her illness. If the rumors held even a grain of truth, Vivi was precisely the kind of girl Cassius might covet.

The thought had chilled her blood, her protective instincts flaring with a ferocity that drowned out reason.

Though Cassius’s noble rank towered over her own—her husband’s Arwald house served directly under his Holyfield lineage, she’d resolved to defy him, to protect her daughter at any cost.

She’d armed herself that day, slipping a surgical scalpel into her sleeve, it’s cold steel a silent vow. If Cassius betrayed any hint of malevolent intent, she’d strike, consequences be damned.

Her life would be forfeit for attacking a noble of his stature, but her love for Vivi burned brighter than fear.

But when she’d entered the drawing room, scalpel at the ready, Cassius had defied every expectation.

Far from the depraved beast of rumor, he’d been a gentleman unlike any noble she’d ever encountered.

He’d stood there, casually conversing with her maids, his demeanor devoid of the lustful intent the gossip had promised. Instead, he’d spoken with them as equals, asking about their families, their lives, his tone warm and genuine, as if he were a commoner sharing a tavern tale.

The sight had stunned her a high noble, whose status should have bred disdain for such ‘lesser’ folk, engaging so effortlessly, so carelessly. The maids, too, had seemed at ease, their usual wariness absent, their laughter soft and unguarded, clearly showcasing his disarming charm.

She’d learned later that he’d arrived bearing gifts for the household—fine wines, exotic foods he’d claimed to have crafted himself, delicacies the maids had never tasted, their flavors lingering in their delighted whispers.

The gesture had been respectful, thoughtful, a far cry from the predatory noble she’d braced herself to confront and because of that her first impression had shifted, the scalpel in her sleeve feeling suddenly heavy, out of place.

And why she talked to him directly, she expected a man who’d leer at her curves, whose eyes would linger on her ample chest or rounded hips, whose words would drip with crude innuendo, whose intent would be to slink into Vivi’s room with sinister designs.

But Cassius had been the opposite a true gentleman, his presence both commanding and humble.

When they’d sat to talk, her guard still up, she’d been further surprised. The rumors had painted him as a recluse, a loner oppressed by his father’s shadow, barely capable of conversation. Yet, he’d proven to be a charismatic conversationalist, his words flowing with an effortless grace that drew her in.

He’d spoken of medicine, of philosophy, of the world’s wonders, his intellect matching her own in a way she hadn’t experienced in years.

For a fleeting moment, she’d forgotten the scalpel, the rumors, even the purpose of his visit, lost in the rare joy of a conversation that challenged and delighted her.

He’d been humble, too, never wielding his noble status as a weapon, despite her family’s vassalage to his. Instead, he’d praised her work, her hospital, her dedication to the people, his words laced with a respect that stirred a quiet pride in her chest, warming her in a way she hadn’t expected.

But when he’d brought up Vivi, the spell had broken, her fear surging back like a tidal wave.

Her hand had twitched toward the scalpel, her body tensing as she braced for the worst.

She’d wondered, in that heart-stopping moment, if she could strike down this man—so intellectual, so charismatic, so unexpectedly kind.

But then, to her astonishment, he’d begun asking about Vivi’s illness for some reason, his questions precise, probing the details of her symptoms with a expert’s focus.

She had no choice at that time, so she’d answered cautiously, guarding her daughter’s vulnerability, but what followed had left her reeling.

Without seeing Vivi, without a single examination, he’d described her symptoms in excruciating detail—pains she hadn’t mentioned, sensations she’d overlooked, as if he’d already diagnosed the illness in his mind.

Her composure had shattered, the grace of a noble lady giving way to raw shock. She’d leapt to her feet, her voice rising in disbelief, her face flushing at the startled look he’d given her.

After sitting herself down, he went on calmly explaining that he’d come to treat Vivi, claiming knowledge of methods that could alleviate her suffering, perhaps even cure her.

Had he simply asserted such a claim, she might have dismissed it as a ploy, a scheme to get close to her daughter.

But his uncanny insight, his ability to name symptoms she’d missed, had convinced her he wasn’t lying.

Her desperation for Vivi’s survival had overridden her fear, and she’d nearly dragged him to Vivi’s room, eager for him to begin.

But to her surprise, he’d refused, his tone gentle but firm. He’d insisted she needed time to trust him, to believe in his intentions. So, instead, he’d offered a series of remedies—specific, detailed instructions to ease Vivi’s pain and promised to return in three days to check on her progress.

Then, as abruptly as he’d arrived, he’d left, leaving her with a handful of methods and a mind spinning with questions. She hadn’t known what to make of him, his motives a labyrinth she couldn’t navigate.

But her instincts, honed by years as a doctor and mother, had urged her to trust him, and her intellect had agreed, recognizing the brilliance in his suggestions.

She’d applied his remedies exactly as instructed, and to her astonishment, Vivi had improved—her pain lessened, her strength returned, her condition stabilizing in ways Diana’s fifteen years of effort had never achieved.

It was as if Cassius had bestowed a divine miracle, a lifeline for the daughter she’d fought so fiercely to save.

Hope had bloomed in her heart, a fragile, radiant thing, and she’d realized that Cassius might be the answer to her prayers—the one person capable of saving Vivi, the most precious part of her world, more vital than her own life…

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep