Chapter 102

With her husband’s quiet nod, Cassandra feels as if a dam has burst. A single tear escapes her lashes, trailing down her cheek as she turns toward Cyrus. From the outside, his posture is composed—shoulders squared, expression steady—but beneath that mask, a tempest rages. He’s been torn between relief and guilt ever since the truth nearly slipped from his tongue, and now his every heartbeat pounds questioning syllables: Was this the right moment? How would she react?

Cassandra lifts her trembling hand, as if uncertain how to steady herself, and prepares to apologise. But before she can speak, her own voice rings out in a soft, tremulous question: “Why didn’t you tell me?” There is no accusation there, only a gentle ache that makes Cyrus’s chest constrict. Her tone—so sweet, so wounded—fills him with hope that perhaps she isn’t angry but simply hurt.

He gathers his courage. “When we were separated after the accident,” he begins, voice low, each word measured, “a kind coup