Chapter 2: The Ice in His Eyes
Mia's POV
I was reviewing Eric's lab results at my desk when I felt it—the subtle shift in the atmosphere. The kind that makes your skin prickle even though no wind has touched it. A presence. Cold, commanding, and powerful.
The door opened with a soft but intentional click.
I looked up.
And time paused.
He stepped in like he owned the air in the room. Tall, sharp-jawed, and impossibly polished in a navy suit that probably cost more than my annual salary. His gaze, icy gray and unnervingly steady, swept across the room before landing on me.
"Dr. Mia Walls?" he asked. His voice was low, velvety, with an edge that felt like it could cut through bone.
"Yes," I said, rising slowly.
He didn't offer a handshake. Instead, he glanced toward the examination room behind me—the one where Eric now rested, sleeping peacefully under the effects of mild sedation.
"I'm Ryan Saint. Eric is my nephew."
Oh.
Oh.
That Ryan Saint.
The CEO of Saint Corporation. Neurosurgeon turned billionaire. The man whose name every business journal whispered with awe and fear. The most eligible bachelor in New York, and rumored to be cold-blooded—literally and figuratively.
His sister Lia's warning earlier made sense now. She wasn't exaggerating.
"I've gone through your credentials," he continued without missing a beat. "Top of your class. Multiple recommendations. Still…" He looked me over—not inappropriately, but with the precise scrutiny of a man used to sizing up deals, not people.
"You're very young."
"I'm also very good," I replied, unable to help myself.
For the briefest second, his lips curved—almost a smirk. "We'll see."
I handed him the tablet. "Eric's condition isn't caused by a virus or bacterial infection. His symptoms point to a metabolic imbalance—possibly something related to his… hybrid physiology. I'll need more time to confirm it, but I've already started supportive treatment."
He scrolled through the report silently. When he spoke again, his voice was low but firm. "He trusts you."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," I said simply. "He does."
He looked at me again—closer this time, studying me like I was a riddle he hadn't expected. "Most humans flinch at silver eyes."
"I don't treat eyes," I said, meeting his gaze. "I treat children."
Another pause. Another blink of surprise in those cold, unreadable eyes.
Then, just like that, he turned toward the door.
"We'll be in touch."
And he was gone, the echo of his expensive shoes disappearing down the hall.
But the weight of him lingered. Like frost on glass.
And I knew—this wasn't the last time I'd see Ryan Saint.