With an eleven years age gap between them, he never even glance twice at this weak creature called his sister.
He remembered, dimly, a scene from four years ago. A fourteen-year-old girl, small and trembling, half-hidden behind a bush as though the world itself was too much for her. She had watched him as he prepared to board the waiting chopper for his mission.
Her wide eyes had been a confusing mix of fear, awe, and desperate longing. He hadn't turned back then. He hadn't even slowed his step. That yearning gaze—her silent plea for him to acknowledge her—was something he had brushed aside without a second thought.
And now, four years later, he had returned to find her nearly drowned by the bastard child of the Third Wife, then locked away to rot in her fever by the hand of their own mother.
After effortlessly disposing of the guards stationed outside, Theodore entered her room. The girl before him was no longer the child hiding behind bushes, but a fragile young maiden with long, tangled hair fanned across her pillow like seaweed drifting in the tide. Her lips were bitten and bruised, her face flushed with fever, her body burning and shivering as if life itself was slipping away.
To Theodore Bolton, she was a responsibility—an obligation born from blood, not affection.
That was all. Or so he told himself before he discovered his mother's secret when he was on a mission this time. The reason he returned earlier than he originally intended.
The sleeping girl stirred bringing Theodore Bolton out of his deep thoughts. Her lashes fluttered weakly, her feverish gaze blurred as it sought him out. And with the faintest breath, she whispered, "Big brother…"
Her voice was fragile, but it clung to him.
The words hung in the silence, trembling yet piercing, and something inside Theodore snapped.
His eyes widened—just slightly, but enough to shatter the polished mask he always wore. For an instant, raw shock cracked across his face, like a blade of lightning across a midnight sky. His breath caught, his pupils constricted, and in that heartbeat he looked less like the untouchable heir of House Bolton and more like a man dragged back into a memory he could not escape.
But then it was gone.
The mask slammed back into place, colder than before, his expression carved into steel. Yet that single, fleeting break had already betrayed him.
Theodore Bolton's gaze turned sharp, too sharp, as if her words had clawed into his chest and left something bleeding. He loathed weakness, but the way her voice clung to him—like a ghost whispering from the grave—unsettled him more than her fevered state ever could.
He leaned closer, his shadow falling over her frail body, his voice a low hiss that brushed her ear with venom and something she couldn't name.
"You should not be alive."
The words dripped like poison, yet behind them trembled an emotion he had buried so deep it frightened even him.
And then, as if fleeing his own weakness, Theodore Bolton turned sharply, his steps retreating into the dark, leaving Cassandra with nothing but her racing heartbeat and the unbearable weight of his gaze that still lingered, even in his absence.
When Cassandra Bolton stirred awake, the first thing she felt was the cool press of a damp cloth against her fevered skin. Relief seeped into her burning body, and she instinctively leaned into the sensation, savoring the fleeting comfort. Slowly, her lashes fluttered open—and froze, her breath caught in her throat.
Sitting casually by her bedside, one long leg crossed over the other, was a man whose beauty seemed carved from the heavens themselves. Blond hair caught the sunlight like threads of molten gold, falling in slightly tousled waves that only added to the maddening perfection of his face. His eyes—icy blue, piercing and cold—regarded her with an unreadable expression, the way a predator might study its prey before deciding whether to pounce.
He was tall even while seated, his broad shoulders draped in a simple black coat that contrasted sharply with the pale, almost ethereal glow of his skin. Everything about him screamed refinement and power… and something darker beneath the surface.
Cassandra froze, her heart skipping a beat as if the air itself had thinned around him. This was Theodore Bolton—her infamous elder brother. The one whose name was spoken in hushed tones, a man both revered and feared.
Fear and anxiety gripped her.
Their eyes met for the first time.
His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, though it held no warmth.
"So," he said softly, his voice deep and smooth yet edged with something dangerous, "the little sister finally wakes."