Chapter 04
The Dean froze in his tracks as he entered the anatomy lab and saw the bed, empty save for a lone corpse. Clearing his throat, he turned away awkwardly.
“It appears she isn’t here. I’ll send someone to look for her,” he said, his voice restrained.
There was no response from Divoa . It wasn’t until a moment later that the Dean realized Divoa’s gaze wasn’t on him but over his shoulder. Curious, the Dean followed Divoa’s line of sight, slowly turning his body to face the same direction. (which means to turn or align oneself so that both people or things are looking or moving in the same direction.)
“Huh!” The Dean let out a startled gasp.
“Hello,” Irene greeted belatedly, her tone calm but formal. Courtesy was, after all, the cornerstone of social interactions, and a simple greeting could often defuse unnecessary tension. Irene had learned this lesson well at the medical academy. Although the truth be told, the pompous sea anemones of her school remained impervious to her attempts at politeness.
The Dean’s lips twitched as recognition struck. The shadowy figure standing in the corner was none other than Irene. Embarrassment gnawed at him; it was humiliating to be caught off guard like this in front of the Grand Duke.
Divoa , however, paid no mind to the Dean’s discomfort. With a warm smile, he stepped past the Dean toward Irene.
“You must be Miss Irene Rios?”
Instead of replying immediately, Irene stared at Divoa , her expression rigid, as though debating whether he deserved a greeting or not. Divoa found the scene amusing. Irene reminded him of a stray cat—more cautious than curious about humans.
Strangely, Divoa had always been adored by animals, even the most temperamental of them. He didn’t know why, but they either liked him or submitted to him.
Divoa offered another dazzling smile—the kind the tabloids loved to associate with his flirtatious reputation.
“Are you Miss Irene Rios?” he asked again.
The Dean, sensing the tension, hastily inserted himself into the exchange. Adopting a stern tone, he chided Irene.
“Miss Rios! The Grand Duke is addressing you. Why are you hesitating to respond?”
Irene glanced at the Dean. She’d met him a few times before and had always thought he resembled a pufferfish with his sweaty, bloated appearance. A pufferfish wearing a gaudy jeweled belt that served no purpose other than to announce where his waist was.
“Pufferfish with a jeweled belt,” she thought, silently adding the description to her mental notes about him.
Lost in her thoughts, Irene missed another opportunity to reply. But Divoa didn’t seem offended. Instead, he extended his hand toward her, as if about to kiss the back of her hand like a gentleman greeting a lady.
Irene blinked down at his outstretched hand. It was a clean, noble hand with long, straight fingers. Yet the calluses told a different story—these weren’t the hands of someone who merely held a pen.
“Irene Rios!”
The Dean’s sharp tone broke her reverie. Irene looked down at her own hands, bare and ungloved. Her gloves were on the table next to the corpse.
Instead of taking Divoa’s hand, she clasped her skirt and performed a small curtsy.
“Greetings, Your Grace,” she said, her voice steady and polite.
Then, without another word, she walked away, leaving both men behind. Divoa ’s hand lingered in the air briefly before he let it drop, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he watched her retreating figure.
Only after Irene put her gloves back on did she visibly relax.
The Dean, finally catching on to her obsessive tendencies, muttered under his breath, “She’s doing her best, I suppose.”
Divoa, however, remained undeterred. He addressed Irene again, his voice warm and inviting.
“I’ve heard much about you, Miss Rios.”
Irene furrowed her brows slightly. She’d overheard enough gossip about herself to know it was rarely flattering. After a moment’s hesitation, she responded dryly.
“The rumors that I laugh while holding a still-beating heart in one hand are untrue. I haven’t laughed once during an autopsy, and all the bodies brought here have already been executed, their hearts long stopped.”
For a moment, Divoa’s expression was unreadable. He wasn’t shocked or offended—perhaps just momentarily caught off guard.
The Dean tried to interject again, but Divoa, without missing a beat, continued smiling at Irene.
“What I’ve heard is that you’re the top graduate candidate of the Royal Medical Academy,” he said.
Irene blinked, momentarily at a loss for words.
“Yes,” she replied simply.
“I heard your skills in surgery are particularly exceptional,” he pressed on.
“Yes,” she repeated, her tone neutral, as though confirming an obvious fact.
Divoa studied her for a moment longer, his gaze briefly shifting to the corpse. The surgical incision was clean, precise, and immaculate—a testament to unparalleled skill.
Finally, Divoa spoke again, his voice smooth and persuasive.
“I need a skilled physician in my territory. Would you consider coming with me as my doctor?”
It wasn’t so much a question as a declaration. In the Kingdom of Dibois, few dared refuse the Grand Duke. But Irene, her expression as unreadable as ever, answered without hesitation.
“No.”
For a moment, silence blanketed the room.
Divoa raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips still curved upward in faint amusement.
“Did I hear you say no?” he asked slowly, as though doubting his ears.
“You heard correctly, Your Grace,” Irene replied, her tone firm.
Divoa’s smile widened, genuinely intrigued now. He leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued.
“You haven’t even heard the terms I’m offering.”
“Whatever terms Your Grace offers, I cannot accept. I will not be your physician,” she said firmly.
“Why not?” Divoa asked, his voice low and curious.
