Devon pushed open the heavy oak door to his office, the faint creak of the hinges slicing through the sterile hum of Blissville Hospital's surgical wing, a sound that seemed to echo the tension.
The air carried a faint whiff of leather from his executive chair, mingling with the sharp tang of antiseptic that clung to everything, a reminder of the hospital's relentless pulse. His eyes landed immediately on Marianne Voss, seated rigidly in the guest chair across from his desk, her posture as unyielding as the steel in her gray eyes.
Her tailored navy blazer and pencil skirt screamed power, the kind that could silence boardrooms or sway city elites, but her face oh, her face was a storm of pure, unfiltered hatred, lips pressed into a thin line, jaw clenched so tightly it could've cracked stone.
If looks could kill, Devon would've been dead a dozen times over, his body riddled with the daggers of her glare, each one sharper than the last.
