Chapter 2: The Examination

Alice’s POV 

The silence in the consultation room was so heavy that you could hear a pin drop.

David Newcombe’s eyes were locked onto mine, tracking every micro-expression like he was trying to dissect me right there on the spot. As a urologist, I’ve seen every possible configuration of the human anatomy; I should have been immune to a naked gaze. But the way this man filled that Herman Miller chair gave me a visceral sense of edge. He didn’t look like a patient; he looked like a predator deciding whether to play with his food or just tear the doctor apart.

"Mr. Newcombe, I’ve reviewed your intake forms," I said, adjusting my glasses and keeping my voice as flat as a dial tone. "ED, complicated by chronic insomnia. Usually, when we’ve ruled out physical trauma, we’re looking at psychogenic blocking. In layman’s terms: your brain has stopped sending the right signals to your body."

David let out a sharp, derisive snort. He leaned back, his posture radiating pure arrogance. "If you’re just here to parrot the same textbook garbage I’ve heard from ten other hacks, then this 'specialist' consult is a waste of my time."

I ignored the bait. If The Matriarch herself had hand-picked me for this, I had to play the part of the untouchable expert.

More importantly, his out-of-pocket fees were astronomical. That one check would cover Camilla’s next round of experimental meds — the ones the insurance company was fighting tooth and nail not to cover.

I snapped on a pair of sterile latex gloves.

"Please get on the exam table," I said, gesturing toward the white bed covered in crinkly sanitary paper. My tone was as casual as if I were checking the weather. "Lose the pants and the underwear. I need to do a physical."

The fingers he had been tapping against the armrest froze.

His face darkened instantly. The look in his eyes would have made a Wall Street trader have a heart attack; in this town, nobody talked to David Newcombe like he was a med student being ordered to scrub floors.

"Say that again?" he asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low-frequency register.

"I think your hearing is fine, Mr. Newcombe." I met his gaze, unblinking.

To me, he wasn't a titan of industry; he was a walking bank account that could reimburse the claims my insurance wouldn't. "I’m the doctor, you’re the patient. If you want to spend the rest of your life as a celibate monk, feel free to walk out that door and hop back into your Bugatti."

David’s gaze pinned me like a predator, making my skin prickle as if brushed by thorns, yet I kept my mask of resolve. The air was thick and heavy. Then came a short, raspy laugh — a sound devoid of warmth, baring nothing but the sharp fangs of his malice.

"Good. Very good."

He stood up, unbuttoned his Tom Ford blazer, and tossed it carelessly onto the chair. His hands moved to his belt. Every movement felt like a silent threat.

"I hope your skills match your ego, Dr. Alice."

He lay back on the table, his skin pale and taut like a predator's underbelly, his muscles rippling with the bottled power of a panther ready to pounce. Even in his forced stillness, he radiated the ferocity of a cornered wolf — an unspoken warning to stay away.

I stepped forward, professional and detached. The moment my fingertips brushed his skin, his entire body jolted.

It was a violent, physiological reaction.

But a second later, the room shifted. David — the man whose chart was flagged with 'zero response' for nearly four years — reacted instantly to my touch.

The change was staggering, like a flash fire sweeping across a dead wasteland.

David surged upward, grabbing my wrist with enough force to nearly crush the bone. His breath hitched, turning ragged, and his eyes burned with a terrifying mix of shock and raw hunger.

"Who the hell are you?" he rasped.

The past four years.

He had tried the best pills money could buy, consulted the top psych-interventionalists in the country, even entertained some of Hollywood's most famous faces — and felt nothing. But now, under the clinical touch of a cold, bespectacled doctor, his blood was suddenly at boiling point.

I ignored the throbbing pain in my wrist, maintaining my mask of medical indifference. "Mr. Newcombe, this is a standard physiological response. It proves your nerve endings are perfectly healthy. Please, stay calm, so I can finish the exam."

"Stay calm?" David stared at me, the fire in him only growing hotter.

He had spent almost four years hunting for a ghost. And now, this clinical, ice-cold woman was giving him the exact same — no, an even stronger — jolt of electricity.

He jerked his hand, pulling me into his space until I could smell the cold, woody scent of his cologne mixed with raw pheromones.

"Dr. Alice..." A dangerous smirk tugged at his lips. "It looks like I'm going to need more than just a consult. I think I’m going to need long-term care."

I looked at his face — at the sharp jawline and the color of his eyes that reminded me of Camilla’s — and I started doing the math.

If I could lock him into a VVIP long-term retainer, Camilla’s search fees for the global marrow registry and her ICU deposit for the next quarter would be fully covered.