6

Chapter 6: Occupation

The familiar scent of antiseptic and sterilized steel greeted me the moment I walked through the hospital doors. It was comforting in a twisted sort of way. Here, there were rules. Here, blood had a purpose and pain had a name. Unlike the shadowed, silent world I moved through at night.

I signed in at the reception and moved briskly down the hallway, my white coat draped over my arm. The nurses nodded as I passed—some respectfully, some warily. No one dared to ask why I looked a little more pale today. Or why I walked a touch slower, favoring my right side.

I appreciated their silence.

In the locker room, I changed quickly. My surgeon's scrubs felt like armor. As I tied my hair back and clipped on my ID, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Gray eyes. Calm. Focused. Unreadable. Just the way they trained us to be.

My fingers brushed the side of my torso—bandaged, hidden beneath layers of fabric. It tugged every time I breathed too hard. But I didn't have time for pain. The OR didn't wait.

"Dr. Pembroke," a nurse called from the door. "They're prepped in Operating Room Two."

I nodded. "I'll be right there."

ed toward the OR, the click of my shoes echoing down the hall like a countdown. Three hours of delicate, high-risk surgery. I welcomed it. Precision. Focus. Control.

Everything my life lacked outside these walls.

(Three hours later)

The surgery had gone smoothly. Clean margins, steady hands, a life saved. I was washing up, the tension in my shoulders just starting to ease, when my phone vibrated in my coat pocket, tucked away in the staff room.

I dried my hands, tugged off my gloves, and pulled the phone out.

Zevren.

Of course.

I hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen before answering. "Didn't expect a call. I thought you were buried in meetings until tomorrow."

His voice came through, low and calm, but there was something in the tone that wasn't quite businesslike.

"I wrapped it up early."

"How responsible of you," I said, walking toward the corner of the room, out of sight. "If you're calling to remind me not to bleed on the floors, I already sanitized them."

"Actually," he said, "I was calling to check if you're still alive."

My brow twitched. "Why?"

"You're limping more than usual."

"You noticed?"

"I always notice."

I leaned against the wall, ignoring the sudden weight in my chest. "Well, I'm fine. Just a graze."

There was a pause.

Then, softer, "You stitched it yourself?"

"You know I did."

"You should've let me—"

"I don't need you to fix me, Zevren." My voice was quiet but firm.

Another pause. Longer this time. "I know."

Something shifted in his voice. He was silent, but I could feel it—the tension, the things unsaid. He wanted to ask. He wanted to know what happened last night. But he didn't.

Instead, he asked, "When's your next surgery?"

"In thirty minutes."

"I'll send lunch."

I blinked. "What?"

"I'll send lunch. Something with iron. You're pale."

And just like that, the call ended.

I stared at my phone.

Zevren Lancaster was impossible.

I was reviewing scans for my next surgery when the nurse knocked on the door with a confused look on her face.

"Dr. Pembroke… there's a delivery for you. From, um… someone very rich, judging by the car outside."

I raised a brow. "Rich? Tall, white-haired, looks like he owns half the city?"

She nodded quickly. "And probably your soul."

I sighed and stood up. "Bring it in."

A moment later, she wheeled in a silver tray—complete with a hot bento box, a tall iced matcha, and a sleek bouquet of white lilies and deep red roses. Elegant. Understated. Very him.

Tucked neatly into the bouquet was a black envelope.

I opened it slowly, expecting something short.

But his handwriting was there—sharp, deliberate.

Zaira,

Since you won't let me fix your wounds, at least let me feed you.

I chose lilies because they're strong. Like you.

And roses because… you still bleed.

Don't die on me.

—Z

My heart did something annoying. I hated it when he wrote like that. Like he meant it.

I slid the note back into the envelope and sat down. The food was warm, comforting—his way of apologizing without saying the words. And somehow, that note echoed louder in my mind than anything he said on the phone.

You still bleed.

Yeah. I did.

But I also still fought.

I was halfway through the bento when the door creaked open again.

"Knock knock," a familiar voice chimed. "Is this the secret VIP lunch club or—whoa."

I looked up to see Aeris, my colleague in trauma surgery—and one of the very few people I tolerated for more than ten minutes at a time. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes flicking to the bouquet on the table like a hawk scenting blood.

"Oh my god," she said, walking in like she owned the room. "Are those lilies and roses? Zaira. Don't tell me the mysterious heart thief you always deny is real actually sent you flowers."

I chewed slowly, unmoved. "Eat your heart out, Aeris."

She grinned and dropped onto the chair across from me. "I knew it. You've been acting different lately—smiling a little more, limping dramatically. Classic signs of a chaotic love life."

I wiped my fingers, then calmly replied, "It's from my fiancé."

Aeris froze mid-reach for a chopstick. "Your what now?"

"My fiancé," I repeated, looking her dead in the eyes. "Not boyfriend. Not admirer. Not mysterious stranger. We're engaged."

A moment of stunned silence.

Then she let out a strangled laugh. "Wait—hold on—since when?!"

I picked up my matcha, unbothered. "Arranged. It's complicated. And annoying. But yes. Now if you're done interrogating me, I still have organs to slice open in fifteen minutes."

Aeris stood, hands raised in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. But you will spill details. Preferably over wine. Or vodka."

As she backed out, still muttering in disbelief, I glanced once more at the flowers on the tray.

Fiancé.

I still wasn't used to the word.

But somehow, when it came to Zevren… it didn't feel like a chain.

It felt like a storm.

I stared at Aeris as she beamed at me, clearly delighted with herself. She was still grinning like a cat who'd just found the cream, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Why don't you text your fiancé then?" she suggested, practically bouncing in her seat.

I gave her a long, deadpan look, emotionless. "Should I?"

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Of course, you should! The poor guy must be waiting. Look at all this effort he's putting in for you. He's probably dying of anticipation!"

I raised an eyebrow. "He is the one who made the flowers look like they were handpicked from some expensive florist."

"Exactly!" Aeris clapped her hands together. "So, go ahead, text him."

I took my phone out, fingers hovering over the screen, ready to type. But just as I was about to send a simple thank you, Aeris shot out her hand and swiped the phone from me.

"Why don't you send a picture instead?" she said, her grin widening. "Here, let me help."

Before I could protest, she quickly shifted the phone around and snapped a photo of me. I blinked, caught off guard, my hand up in a peace sign—something I did unconsciously when I was trying to hide my annoyance with someone. The picture was, well... a little too casual.

I sighed, not even bothering to argue, and took my phone back from her.

"You're lucky I don't hit you with a scalpel," I muttered, glancing at the picture she had taken. It was... oddly cute, considering it was an accidental peace sign.

I quickly typed out my message and hit send:

Done eating. Thank you for the food, my colleague and I enjoyed it very much.

I paused for a moment before adding a small smiley face.

"You're welcome," I muttered to myself, tossing the phone on the table.

Aeris leaned in, peering at my screen with a grin. "I bet he's going to melt when he sees that. You're a cute couple, you know?"

"Don't get any ideas," I warned, standing up and grabbing my coat. "I'll deal with you later. Surgery awaits."

Aeris was still giggling as I walked out, my mind a little more occupied with what Zevren's reply might be than I'd like to admit.

Third Person POV – Zevren

The conference room was stuffy. A long mahogany table, glass walls that overlooked the city, and the hum of too many voices discussing plans, strategies, and the weight of business deals that felt as important as life or death. Zevren sat at the head of the table, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge, his mind more focused on the phone vibrating in his pocket than the meeting in front of him.

The sudden message from Zaira had caught his attention the moment it arrived. His eyes flicked down to the screen, where her text appeared in neat lines. His lips twitched slightly as he read through it, but it wasn't the words that made his heart skip a beat. It was the photo she had sent.

Zaira—his fiancée—her dark hair framing her face, her eyes half-lidded, and the peace sign held up almost as an afterthought. It was so her. Unaware. Casual. Almost playful, even though he knew her better than anyone else. That rare moment of her vulnerability, her realness, hit him harder than expected.

A slight smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

"You seem distracted," one of his business partners said, looking at him with raised eyebrows. "Zevren?"

He snapped his gaze back to the table, regaining his professional demeanor. "I'm listening."

But his mind wasn't fully there. Not when she was waiting. When she was his and yet always so independent, so... untouchable in her own way. He had never been good at this—relationships, emotions, being soft. But with Zaira, he couldn't help but give in just a little.

The moment the meeting wrapped up, Zevren stood, dismissing his colleagues with a cool nod. He left the boardroom with one clear thought in his mind.

She's probably exhausted from her surgeries, but I'll visit her anyway.

Later at the Hospital – Zaira

I had just finished my last surgery for the day, my hands tired but steady. The air in the operating room had begun to cool, and I found myself wandering back to the staff lounge to grab a coffee.

Then, my phone buzzed again.

It was from Zevren.

I'm coming to visit you.

My heart fluttered a bit, despite myself. I glanced around the hospital—empty corridors, white walls, that sterile silence—and something felt off about being here alone, knowing Zevren would soon walk in, all polished, suited up. He always had this way of interrupting my space, making everything feel... different.

I texted back quickly: Why?

He replied almost immediately.

Because you're my fiancée, and I need to see for myself if you're not dying from exhaustion.

I smirked at the text. As if I could die from exhaustion while I was still breathing. But... I wasn't going to lie. I was looking forward to seeing him, even if it was in his usual suit.

I stared at my phone, the message from Zevren still sitting there, waiting to be read again. Because you're my fiancée, and I need to see for myself if you're not dying from exhaustion.

I snorted softly. As if I could die from exhaustion in a hospital full of nurses and doctors who actually know what they're doing.

But then again… there was something about the way he said it, like he really meant it. Like he actually cared enough to check on me.

It was absurd how quickly that idea could change the mood of the entire hospital. In a place where it was all just sharp instruments and cold facts, the thought of Zevren walking in with his usual sharp suit and serious expression felt like a spark of warmth in this otherwise clinical world.

I checked my reflection in the small glass panel beside the lounge door. My hair was tied back in a messy knot, and I was still in my scrubs. Not exactly the image of someone who had it all together. The faint bruise on my side from last night's incident was still visible beneath my sleeve, but I'd covered most of it up. Still, the small cut had healed quickly with the magic I had, and the lingering soreness didn't bother me as much anymore.

I sighed and sank into one of the lounge chairs, trying to get comfortable. The place was quiet, a little too quiet.

What is he really like when he's here, outside of work?

I couldn't help but think of his earlier message—the little moment of softness that slipped through the usual wall of control he put up. Zevren was never open about his emotions. Never. He had this cold, unflappable exterior, and when he did show care, it was in the smallest, most inconvenient ways—like flowers with a cryptic note, or suddenly visiting when I least expected it.

I half-smiled to myself, still a little perplexed. It wasn't what I had expected from an arranged marriage, especially one as inconvenient and professionally entangling as ours.

But maybe that's what kept me on edge with him. The strange, impossible balance between being his fiancée and still holding onto my independence.

The door to the lounge opened, and the sharp click of dress shoes echoed down the hallway.

He was here.

I looked up, and there he stood, exactly as I expected—tall, impeccably dressed, his silver hair falling perfectly around his face. His gray eyes caught mine immediately, and I felt something shift in the pit of my stomach.

"Zevren," I said, standing up, even though my legs were a little unsteady. "Didn't expect you to show up so soon."

He didn't respond immediately, just taking a brief moment to survey me as if making sure I wasn't about to collapse. His gaze softened for a moment before he nodded.

"You're not as bad as I thought you'd be," he said, walking over to me. "But you're still not getting out of here without a decent meal and rest."

I smirked. "I'm fine. I've been working with worse than exhaustion for years."

He didn't reply to that, just tilted his head slightly and placed a hand on my shoulder, not in a commanding way, but as if he was silently grounding me. I could feel the faintest pulse of his energy, subtle and warm.

"I don't care," he said quietly. "You're going to take it easy tonight. I won't have you running yourself ragged on my watch."

I stared at him, caught off guard by how much sincerity was in his voice. For all his cool exterior, Zevren had a way of speaking to me that didn't feel like an order. It felt like a quiet plea—something he rarely gave.

Maybe this wasn't as complicated as I made it out to be.

Maybe I didn't have to always be the one to keep everything under control.

"Let's go home," he said, his voice calm but firm, as he extended his hand toward me.

I stared at it for a second, hesitant. But I sighed, relenting. Just as my fingers were about to brush his—

He suddenly scooped me up, bridal style.

"What the—?!" I yelped, instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders. "Wh-What are you doing? Put me down!"

But he didn't. Of course he didn't.

"I said we're going home," he replied smoothly, walking out of the lounge as if carrying a grown woman in front of an entire hospital staff was the most natural thing in the world. "You looked like you'd collapse on your way to the door. So I'm speeding things up."

"Zevren," I hissed, trying to wriggle out of his grip. "This is humiliating. People are watching!"

"Good," he said without even glancing at me. "Let them. You're mine, aren't you?"

My breath caught at that, a mix of irritation and heat crawling up my neck. Why did he have to say things like that so casually?

"This isn't how normal people act, Zevren."

"I'm not normal," he said, stepping into the elevator. The doors closed behind us, sealing us in a mirrored box that reflected how flushed I probably looked. "And neither are you."

I didn't answer.

Because he was right.

And worse?

A part of me didn't really want him to put me down.