"Have you lost your damn mind," Gregory Astor bellowed, dragging his hand across the desk and sending files, a crystal decanter, and a framed photo crashing to the floor. Veins bulged in his neck and forehead; he looked one shout away from a stroke.
Alexander Astor stared back with flat, soulless eyes. He didn't flinch at the mess. He didn't feel the need to. Anger was just noise—interesting in small doses, irrelevant in large ones. He understood why his father was furious. He just didn't care.
"Last I checked," Alex said evenly, "I haven't lost my mind. In fact, I was able to perform a successful aortic arch reconstruction on a 72-year-old with ruptured aneurysm and three prior sternotomies. High-risk. No complications. Patient extubated this morning."
Gregory's face purpled further. "You think that excuses last night? You went to the Whitaker Foundation gala in my place—representing *this* hospital—and you beat Preston Whitaker to a pulp. His father is one of our biggest donors. They're threatening charges. I had to beg them not to sue."
Alex tilted his head slightly. "I was defending myself. He grabbed my arm. I removed the threat."
"Removed the threat?" Gregory barked a laugh that held no humor. "You crushed his larynx. He's in the ICU on a ventilator. You call that defense?"
"Actually," Alex corrected, voice calm and precise, "it was his hyoid bone and cricoid cartilage. The larynx itself was displaced. Efficient application of force. He'll recover. Probably."
Gregory stared at him like he was looking at a stranger. Or a machine. "You're unbelievable. You will go apologize. Personally. Today."
"I will not." Alex's tone didn't rise. "If you force me, the apology will be performative. Empty. He'll know. Everyone will know. Waste of time."
Gregory's hand shot out—open-palmed, cracking across Alex's cheek with a sharp sound. The impact echoed in the quiet office.
Alex didn't react. No flinch. No hand to his face. He simply straightened his white coat collar, the faint red mark already fading into nothing. Pain was inconsequential. Irrelevant even.
The door opened without a knock.
"Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Astor," the secretary said, eyes darting nervously to the wreckage on the floor. "There's a Mr. Harper here to see you."
Gregory fixed his tie, exhaled like he was resetting a machine. "Send him in."
He turned to Alex. "Get out. You disgust me. I should have sent Anthony in your place."
Alex's lips curved—not a smile, just the shape of one. No warmth. No mirth. "Yes. You should have sent your favorite son, Father."
He rose smoothly, adjusting the sleeves of his white coat as the door opened wider.
Ethan Harper stepped in.
Alex experienced a rare, genuine pause, half a second of recalibration. The man was smaller than anticipated. Perhaps 5'7". Slim, almost delicate build under the tailored button-down and slacks. But the face—sharp cheekbones, warm hazel eyes framed by light brown waves, Handsome in a way that felt unfair. Quietly devastating.
Gregory blinked. "Oh. It's you, Ethan. I thought you were your father."
Ethan's gaze flicked to Alex. brief, assessing, then he looked away.
"I'd like to marry your son, Mr. Astor," Ethan said plainly. "In place of my sister."
The room went still.
Gregory leaned back, eyebrows climbing. "What?"
"My sister has refused to marry him due to some personal issues," Ethan continued, voice level, like he was reciting a patient history. "I have no issue taking her place."
Alex stared. Amused. Genuinely amused. The corner of his mouth twitched.
Gregory snorted. "And do you know if my son is gay? Because judging from what you just said, you must be gay. So what if my son isn't?"
Ethan didn't blink. "Given the research I did on Mr. Astor Junior and his… many relationships, he appears to have no exclusive preference for one gender over the other."
Alex let out a low, breathy sound, almost a laugh, but colder. "You've gotta be kidding me."
Ethan ignored him completely. "And to make my proposition enticing: I'm a doctor myself. A pediatric neurologist. As I'm sure you know, highly competent. I'll be of far more use to you than my Social media-obsessed sister."
Gregory laughed again fuller this time, genuine amusement lighting his tired eyes. "Damn right you've pleaded your case. You can have my son."
Alex's eyes narrowed. "I have no say in this? I'm right here."
Gregory waved a dismissive hand like batting a fly. "You can marry him, if you agree to work for Astor Health Systems."
Ethan stiffened. All his years since med school had been at Harper Medical, his family's place, his routines, his quiet accommodations. The thought of change prickled his skin. But the hospital was dying.
"I will work for your hospital," he said.
Gregory clapped once. "Perfect. Tomorrow you wed."
Ethan turned to Alex then, finally acknowledging him fully. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple platinum band. Plain. No flourish.
"Will you marry me?" Ethan asked, holding it out.
Alex looked at the ring like it was an interesting specimen. Irritation flickered, brief but controlled. "Do I even have a choice?"
Ethan's reply was immediate, matter-of-fact. "It seems not."
He lifted Alex's left hand, gentle but firm and slid the ring onto his finger.
Then he smiled.
Small. Polite. But real. A soft curve that reached his eyes and made them warmer, almost golden in the office light.
Alex stared at the band. At the man who'd just claimed him like a procedure note. At the quiet certainty in those hazel eyes.
For the first time in years, something stirred under the ice, sharp, unwelcome, and dangerously curious.
Tomorrow, they will be married.
And nothing would ever be the same.