[EMY]
The first thing I noticed about Richard was that he wasn't wearing his coat properly. It hung half-off his shoulder, as if he'd gotten dressed in the dark and decided that was good enough.
The second thing I noticed was his eyes—sharp, restless, calculating. He looked at me like I was a puzzle that had just walked through his illegal, half-hidden clinic door.
And third? Well, the third thing was hard to ignore: for someone running a secret operation, he was annoyingly handsome.
Not the magazine-cover kind, but the frustrating, "if you shaved, fixed your hair, and maybe learned how to smile without scaring people" kind of handsome.
"Uh . . . Doctor Richard?" I said, testing the waters.
He raised a brow. "You shouldn't call me that." His voice was flat, clipped. He didn't move from where he leaned against the counter, arms crossed like I was already wasting his time. "I'm not licensed."
I blinked. "Okay . . . Mister Richard?"
"That sounds worse," he muttered.
I bit back a laugh. It slipped out anyway, a nervous giggle echoing in the sterile-smelling room. He narrowed his eyes at me, like laughter was contraband here.
The truth was, this wasn't the first time I'd met him. In my original timeline, we'd been . . . well, friends. Maybe more, depending on how you measured the late-night talks, the ridiculous arguments about nothing, and the unspoken way we'd trusted each other.
But here, now, this was the first time. To him, I was nobody. Just another stranger who'd stumbled into his secret world.
I had to remind myself—patience. Relationship building wasn't going to be that hard. Not when I knew his quirks, his walls, and the softer side he thought no one could see.
I sat down, smoothing my skirt, and tried to act like I hadn't time-traveled into my own glow-up story. "So," I said, flashing what I hoped was a confident smile, "I want to glow. The 'Oh my god, what's your skincare routine?' type of glow. You get me?"
Richard looked at me. Not a normal look. Not even a professional one. More like . . . suspicious.
His dark eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. He had the face of a man who could easily be handsome if he stopped brooding and maybe showered properly.
If he fixed himself up, he'd be one of those "hot doctor" fantasies women whispered about.
Right now, though, he looked like a guy auditioning for the role of "shady love interest in a crime drama."
I lifted my chin. "Don't look at me like that."
"I don't know you," he said flatly. His voice was deep, gravelly, like he'd swallowed too much coffee and distrust. "And people I don't know can't just walk into my clinic asking for miracles. Do you have any idea how many undercover agents try to shut me down?"
I grinned. "Wow, that's dramatic. Do I look like a spy to you?"
His gaze swept me from head to toe. I suddenly became very aware that I was sitting in an illegal clinic with a man who had enough scalpels to play Fruit Ninja in real life.
"You could be," he muttered.
I leaned in, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Trust me, I'm the least spy-looking person you'll ever meet. I'm just a girl with stubborn PCOS, acne that doesn't know when to quit, and a desire to shine brighter than the sun itself. That's all."
His brows furrowed, suspicion still clinging to him like static. But I could see it—the tiniest flicker of curiosity breaking through.
Good. Hook, line, and sinker.
Because here's the thing: I remembered Richard. In my past life, we'd somehow become friends. He'd started as this scary, standoffish man who made me nervous every time he touched my face with his gloved hands.
But over the years, after countless visits and awkward conversations, he'd opened up. A little. Enough that I knew he wasn't actually a villain—just a man protecting his secrets. And now? I had the upper hand.
"Alright," he said finally, standing up and snapping on gloves. "Tell me exactly what you want."
"Simple," I said. "Flawless, acne-free skin. Like glass. Like a porcelain doll who moisturizes with angel tears."
He stared at me, clearly unimpressed. "That'll take time. Sessions. Maintenance. Discipline. Money." His lips quirked—half amused, half warning. "Lots of money."
I shrugged. "I'm investing in myself. And in case you haven't heard, self-love is priceless."
His eyebrow twitched. For a moment, I swore he wanted to laugh, but Richard didn't seem like the type to allow himself the luxury.
Instead, he rolled his stool closer, leaned in, and examined my skin. His breath brushed against my cheek, and I had to fight the sudden urge to fidget.
Okay, maybe he was weirder up close. Handsome-weird. Dangerous-weird. But definitely weird.
Too bad—I was already immune to his charms. And besides, there was no way I'd ever romance a friend.
In fact, there was no way I'd romance anyone right now. My goal, my entire life, was to save Eric. Nothing else mattered.
"You've got inflammation, clogged pores, scarring," he murmured clinically. His fingers hovered near my face, never quite touching, like he was drawing invisible lines only he could see. "It'll be work. Painful, too."
I grinned wider. "Pain is temporary. Glow is eternal."
He finally cracked. Just a small laugh, sharp and disbelieving. "That's right."
"Thank you," I said sweetly. "I take that as a compliment."
For the first time, Richard's expression softened—not much, but enough that I could glimpse the man I'd known before. The one who, despite the illegal clinic and shady background, actually cared about his patients in his own grumpy, offbeat way.
And there it was: a flicker of recognition. Not of me, exactly, but of possibility.
He reached for his tools, muttering under his breath. "Alright. First session. Don't scream too loud, or the neighbors will think I'm killing you."
"Wait, what?"
But before I could protest, he got to work.
Needles, lasers, extractions—the whole secret arsenal. My skin burned, my eyes watered, and at one point I swore I saw my soul leaving my body.
The agony of that first year of skin therapy came flooding back all at once.
But I held it in. No screams. Just gritted teeth and my determination to get into Star Entertainment.
Come hail, thunder, or snow, I would definitely make it into that company.