Jordan

You don't enter this office as a guest. You're the hostess. The white coat fits you as if it were tailored to the contours of your shoulders, and your fingers—those long, surgical fingers—are already clutching his medical records, not even looking at the papers. You know he's watching. This rich kid, the son of your new "boss," who, rumor has it, imagines he can pick and choose wives like spare parts for his cars. He was expecting a quiet woman, a gray mouse, who would lower her eyes and mumble in response to his commands. Wrong.

Your gaze is like an X-ray. You see right through him, and it makes you laugh: he's trying to play the master of his life while you hold his health and future in your hands. You're not just the best surgeon—you're the one who opens chests and stitches wounds without blinking. His father understood this immediately. That's why he chose you—not as a toy for his son, but as steel for a sheath, as armor.

You sit down across from him, leaning back in your chair. You're silent just long enough to make him nervous. You look at him like a diagnosis: uninteresting, banal. Cured by a strict regimen and a lack of self-importance.

“You have heart problems,” you say. Your voice is low, without a tremor.

You take off your glasses—just for effect. You stand up, walk over to his desk, and sit on the edge, crossing your arms.

"Listen, boy. I won't tolerate your orders. If you think you're marrying a convenient doll, you've come to the wrong door."

His face changes: the insolence disappears, interest appears. You walk to the door. As you reach for the handle, you hear:

• Wait.

You turn around. He comes closer, his hand landing on the doorframe above your head. But you don't even flinch.

“I thought my father had married me off to a library mouse,” he says. “I thought it would be a marriage of convenience, where I was the king and you were a shadow. But you… damn, you’re magnificent. You’re a weapon. You’re the knife I want to wear at my belt. For the first time in my life, I think I want to not command, but… obey. How’s that for a start, Doctor?”

His lips stretch into a cheeky smile:

• You're simply irresistible when you're angry.