Chapter 2

The Vance Vision Clinic occupied the penthouse floor of the most exorbitant office high-rise downtown.

The instant the elevator doors slid open, a heavy waft of clinical antiseptic mixed with some sort of cloying perfume rushed over me.

I couldn't suppress a sneeze.

The reception desk was totally deserted.

Thorne navigated the twisting corridors with practiced efficiency, leading me straight into the VIP waiting room.

"You look like you know this place better than I do," I casually mentioned, rubbing my tired eyes.

Thorne's steps hitched for the briefest second before he chuckled. "I’ve been up here no less than ten times making arrangements for your surgery. I should hope I know my way around."

Just as the words left his mouth, the sharp click-clack of stilettos against the marble floors rang out from the far end of the corridor.

A woman with tumbling waves of crimson hair sashayed into the room, poured into a skin-tight nurse's uniform.

Her skirt was inappropriately short, and her stark red lips looked fiercely aggressive under the sterile, pallid lighting.

"Mr. Thorne. You're here."

The woman’s gaze completely bypassed me and locked directly onto him. Her tone dripped with an unabashed, intimate familiarity.

"Rowena, this is my wife, Odette."

Thorne gave a dry cough and made the introductions. "Rowena is Dr. Vance's chief surgical assistant. She'll be helping with the procedure today."

"Mrs. Odette. I've heard so much about you."

Rowena finally bothered to turn her head and acknowledge me.

Her eyes raked over my body, a mocking smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You look... a bit more drawn than in your photos."

The blatant provocation in her opening remark made my frown deepen.

For an employee at a high-end private clinic, her haughtiness was wildly out of line.

"Where is Dr. Vance?"

"I want to confirm the lens material with him one more time before we proceed."

I ignored her rudeness and fired off my demand point-blank.

"Dr. Vance is in the sterile room finalizing his preparations."

Rowena flipped open the medical chart in her hands dismissively. "As for the lens, it's already in the sterilizer."

"Ma'am, your husband has already verified everything countless times. There's no need to work yourself up."

"I am the patient, and I have the absolute right to see what is being permanently implanted into my body."

I lowered my voice to a hard edge. "Bring me the packaging box."

Rowena froze.

She shifted her eyes up to look at Thorne.

In that fraction of a second, an incredibly brief yet heavily loaded glance seemed to pass between them.

"Odette, knock it off."

Thorne closed the distance, his hands clamping down on my shoulders. "The box has already been tossed with the biohazard waste. This is a sterile environment—you're going to completely derail the doctor's schedule."

"I can't even look at an empty box?"

I wrenched myself out of his grip, the seeds of suspicion exploding into a thorny tangle in my mind.

Right at that moment, the door pushed open and Dr. Vance walked in.

He looked to be in his late fifties, saddled with heavy bags under his eyes and a fine layer of sweat glistening on his forehead. He exuded an unshakeable aura of sheer exhaustion and nervous panic.

"Mrs. Odette, are you ready?"

"We can get started."

Dr. Vance didn't even look me in the eye. He stared fixedly down at the files in his trembling hands, his voice carrying a slight quiver.

"Doctor, you look more terrified than I am."

I locked my gaze onto him. "I need one final confirmation. The implant strictly contains zero PMMA. Right?"

Dr. Vance’s hands jerked violently, nearly dropping his clipboard onto the floor.

He swallowed dryly, his eyes darting up to cast a rapid, panicked look at Thorne.

Then he stuttered out, "O-of course. Perfectly safe."

"Please, head back to change into your surgical gown."

I didn't miss the naked flash of terror in the depths of his eyes.

What on earth was he so frightened of?

"I need to use the restroom first."

I dropped the icy excuse and turned on my heel, marching toward the far end of the hall.

Pushing open the heavy restroom door, I braced both hands against the vanity sink, gasping for air.

The woman staring back at me in the mirror was ghost-pale, her eyes wide with mounting paranoia.

I cranked on the faucet, splashing freezing water onto my cheeks, desperate to forcibly shock myself out of the panic.

But as I reached for a paper towel to dry my face, it hit me.

That scent.

It was tuberose overlaid with heavy amber—a violently sweet, cloying fragrance. It was the exact same perfume radiating off Nurse Rowena earlier.

And what made my blood run ice-cold was the sickening realization that last night, when Thorne came home late from a business dinner, I had smelled that identical fragrance soaked into the collar of his discarded dress shirt.

A terrifying, monstrous hypothesis crystallized in my brain.

Thorne and Rowena were absolutely not just a loving husband and a helpful clinic nurse.

So then, this mandatory eye surgery—what was it really for? Was it actually to fix my vision, or was it a cover to finish the job?

I violently shoved the restroom door open, my mind made up to cancel the surgery right this second.

But the instant I stepped out into the hallway, Rowena and Thorne were already standing right outside the door.

"Ma'am. It's time."

Rowena’s face was set in a chillingly sterile, professional smile.

And Thorne's hand clamped down hard onto my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh with a punishing strength.

"Let's go, darling."