You didn't even want to come.
You had an empire to run, a boardroom full of men twice your age waiting to interrupt you mid-sentence, a pile of contracts to sign, and a new assistant who didn't know the difference between espresso and death juice. A gynaecologist appointment?
Not on your bingo card today.
But noooo—your assistant booked it anyway. "Ma'am, women's health is important," she chirped. "Especially for someone with your lifestyle."
Now here you were. Legs crossed in a pristine white clinic that smelled like lavender soap and betrayal. The ceiling was aggressively white. The air conditioner was too cold. And the nerves in your stomach? Raving.
You were already regretting this.
"Miss Y/N?" A nurse peeked her head out. "Room three. The doctor will be right with you."
You stood up, adjusted your blazer like it was battle armor, and marched inside.
You'd survived hostile takeovers and shady journalists.
How bad could this be?
Ten minutes later, you were sitting on the exam table, glaring at your phone while trying to pretend this paper gown wasn't a war crime. You hated feeling vulnerable. You hated being out of control. And most of all—
click. The door opened.
You didn't look up at first. Too busy texting your assistant to never schedule anything again without your written approval.
Then you heard his voice.
"Long time no see, shortcake."
Your fingers froze mid-text.
No.
No way.
It couldn't be.
You looked up.
There he was. Clipboard in hand, lab coat crisp, biceps outrageously unnecessary for a man who delivered babies.
Zayne.
Your high school nemesis.
Your arch enemy.
Your literal hormonal nightmare.
Your OB-GYN.
"What the hell are you doing here?!" you snapped.
He gave you that smirk—the same one he wore when he'd beat you at the science fair, the student council election, and the prom king votes (you didn't even run, and somehow he still managed to make it a competition).
"I work here. I'm your doctor," he said, flipping through your chart like it wasn't the most cursed piece of paper on earth. "Interesting stats. You've got a really fast heartbeat. Nervous?"
"I'm about to be charged with assault if you don't walk out that door in three seconds."
He chuckled. The nerve.
"No can do. I'm one of the top OB-GYNs in the city, sweetheart. You're lucky to have me."
"I'd rather be seen by a YouTube tutorial."
"And miss out on me poking around your insides? How cruel."
"ZAYNE!"
He snorted. "Relax. I'm a professional now. No more prank wars, no glitter bombs, no fire alarms. Just clean gloves and clean records."
You stared at him, mind spiraling.
He'd gotten taller. More confident. That jawline could cut glass. His hair was pushed back, clean and elegant, but those same smug eyes glinted like he was still 18 and had just rigged the vending machine to eat your dollar.
You hated him.
You hated that he looked good.
You hated that you noticed.
And now? He was going to be your doctor.
Oh, this was going to be hell.
--TO BE CONTINUED--