The upright strength of a soldier was cut cleanly into the elegance of his suit. Power lay coiled beneath every inch of fabric. One hand rested in his pocket; the other slid along the gilded banister. His knuckles—faintly callused from years of weapons training—somehow only sharpened his natural authority.
Light carved shadows across his angular face. Beneath the shadow of his brow, his eyes swept the room like a hawk’s, cold, assessing, carrying the pressure of someone used to command. At his collar, a muted gold military pin flashed briefly, the only trace of uniform in an otherwise businesslike outfit.
As he reached the final step, he paused and loosened his tie with a casual tug. The movement made his throat line harder, more severe, and several female doctors visibly forgot how to breathe.
“You’ve been waiting.”
He was dressed for a formal meeting, yet he still gave the impression of a lone predator: controlled grace over something that could tear you apart.
Sapphire’s coffee cup tilted in her hand. Dark liquid bled across the white tablecloth. She’d been staring.
Doctors rose to their feet. Purity stepped forward quickly, face bright with eagerness. “Mr. Shapiro, I’ve reviewed your case and developed a preliminary treatment plan—”
Lucian lifted a hand, cutting her off. “Today, I want to see real skill.”
He scanned the room. When his gaze passed Loyce, it paused—so briefly it was almost nothing.
“I’ve prepared three patients with conditions similar to mine. Their medical reports will be available to all of you. Identify the disease category and propose a reasonable treatment plan. The rest... I’ll judge for myself.”
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