Kasra waited until the door closed before leaning forward, voice low but edged with curiosity. “Princess, how did you end up with Seven?”

  Sana’s eyes brightened like city lights flickering on at dusk. Words spilled out, weaving the story of what had happened, the attack, her collapse, waking to find Seven at her side.

  Then she dropped the bombshell like a spark in dry brush.

  “Kas, collapsing in front of Seven is just the half of it. When I opened my eyes and saw his face, I realized he was the soldier who saved me five years ago!”

  Kasra’s composure cracked. “What? Are you serious?”

  Sana tilted her head, lashes lowering as her timbre softened to a dreamy whisper. “Kas, do you believe in fate? That maybe Seven and I are… meant to be?”

  For a heartbeat, he simply stared at her.

  Fate?

  The word sounded foreign to him, almost laughable.

  Kasra Shahi had been raised on hard certainties, not lofty notions. Born into one of the nation’s most powerful families, he’d grown up under the shadow of expectation, a future preordained by lineage. At 23, he had stepped into that legacy, taking the helm of Dynamics Group, the empire his grandfather built from the ground up.

  And as if steering that ship weren’t enough, Kasra had forged something of his own: TITAN Group, a security powerhouse conceived from an unshakable instinct to protect the family. What began as a personal shield had since expanded into an elite force trusted by allies far beyond their circle.

  A man like that—a man who believed in strategy, leverage, and control—had little room in his world for fate.

  So, hearing his baby sister muse about destiny? It was almost funny.

  “Princess,” he said, a crooked grin cutting wide, “don’t tell me you’ve fallen for the guy already. You just met him, and now you’re waxing poetic about fate? You’re sure it’s not gratitude dressed up as love?”

  Sana seethed, cheeks flaming. “Oh, forget it! Why do I even tell you things? You’re almost 30 and have never even had a girlfriend! You wouldn’t know fate if it slapped you in the face.”

  Before he could retort, the door was pushed open.

  Seven stepped in, catching Kasra mid-chuckle as he poked Sana’s cheek in brotherly mischief. His quiet authority trailed in with him. Kasra straightened instinctively as the colonel crossed to the bed, his expression all business.

  “Kasra,” Seven began, “I’ve reviewed the scans and reports. I’m about 60 percent confident I can help Mr. Porter regain his ability to walk, but I need to operate as soon as possible.”

  The siblings froze, their breaths held in the silence that followed.

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  Seven continued, calm and precise, “I’ll need to harvest his stem cells for reinjections over time. After surgery, he’ll require regular acupuncture and physiotherapy. If he commits and puts in the work, he could be walking again in nine months to a year and a half.”

  Joy lit Sana’s face like a flare in the dark. Kasra’s tension eased into something that resembled relief.

  “Seven, that’s incredible,” he said, sincerity threading through his usual reserve. “A 60 percent chance! That’s more than we hoped for. The specialist at Inova practically wrote him off.”

  “He’s got his work cut out for him,” Seven reminded gently.

  Kasra nodded, already shifting to logistics. “You mentioned stem cell injections, acupuncture, and physiotherapy. Do you have recommendations? Whatever it costs, money’s no issue.”

  Seven’s response was measured. “I’m trained in all of them. And I’m on authorized leave for six months, though it started on October 1st. I can use what’s left of that time to treat him.”

  He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice carried a weight that made Sana sit straighter.

  “That said, treating an unregistered civilian in a military hospital is a violation. Best case: I’m dismissed and ordered to compensate the hospital for Sana’s care. Worst case: detention, compensation, and discharge. If that happens, I have colleagues who can step in.”

  Kasra stared at him, jaw hitting the floor. Sana’s lips parted in disbelief.

  “Seven, that’s outrageous,” Kasra said sharply. “You saved a life.”

  “I broke the rules,” Seven replied simply. No bitterness. Just fact. “I’ll live with it.”

  Kasra’s jaw tightened. “Then we’ll fight. We’ll back you legally, financially—whatever it takes. My fourth brother’s a legal eagle. He’s never lost a case.”

  Seven’s expression softened. “Thank you. But don’t lose sleep over it. We’ll know soon enough.”

  He shifted gears without preamble. “For now, the priority is Mr. Porter. I can’t leave Sana here, though; she wasn’t registered at the entrance. Normally, visitors have to sign in. If you both leave together, you’ll be stopped at the checkpoint.”

  Kasra frowned. “Right. They inspected my car thoroughly on the way in.”

  “Vehicles with staff decals get a pass,” Seven said. “So here’s the plan: If you can book a private suite at Inova with three beds and an attached bath, I can care for Mr. Porter and Sana together.

  “I’ll take her out tonight and head straight there. If you can arrange for Mr. Porter’s surgery tomorrow morning, that’d be ideal. The specialists who operated before might join, and I can share some techniques.”

  Kasra’s mind was already racing ahead. “Consider it done. I’ll update you once it’s set.”

  A knock sounded, interrupting their conversation.

  “Come in,” Seven called.

  Orderly Dennis appeared with two takeout bags and a key fob between his fingers.

  “Colonel, here’s the food you asked for. And your car’s in the staff lot near the garage entrance.”

  Seven offered a grateful nod. “Thanks, Dennis. Let me Venmo you.” He sent the transfer in seconds.

  Dennis glanced at his phone, eyes rounding. “Colonel, dinner was 80 bucks. You sent 200.”

  Seven hummed. “You’ve helped me out plenty. Grab a drink on me.”

  Dennis grinned, muttered a quick thanks, and slipped out.

  Seven unpacked the food and set up two overbed tables, one for Sana, one for Kasra.

  “Kasra, dig in. I’ll feed Lil’ Miss Oatmeal Hater.”

  Kasra chuckled, amused. Sana, however, skewered Seven with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

  “I can feed myself, thank you very much.”

  Seven didn’t flinch. “Nope. With a cannula in your left hand and a busted right shoulder? Not happening. I’m your hands until that line comes out.”

  Sana tilted her chin high, scoffing in mock offense. Every inch of her bristled at the indignity—it was pure theater. Deep down, though, the flutter in her chest at the pampering wasn’t an act.

  ……

  After dinner, Seven asked, “Kasra, you handling the logistics by phone or heading there?”

  “I’ll go,” Kasra said, wiping his hands. “Text you the details.”

  “Alright.”

  Kasra rose, ruffling Sana’s hair on his way out.

  “See you later, Lil’ Miss Oatmeal Hater.”

  Seven laughed under his breath as Sana pouted, cornered by two men who clearly weren’t taking her side.