I knocked on Dr. Anya's door, Nathalie standing beside me, her posture tense but obedient. "Please come in," Anya's voice called from inside, smooth and professional.
I pushed the door open slightly, my voice calm but deliberate. "Doctor, I've brought the prescription and my wife," I announced, stepping inside.
Anya and the two nurses looked up, their eyes immediately flicking to Nathalie. I could see the surprise in their expressions—Nathalie looked older than me, her face carrying the quiet elegance of a woman in her fifties, though her appearance was deceptively youthful, as if time had been kinder to her than most. The nurses exchanged glances, clearly confused—after all, I had told them I was only 22.
Anya recovered quickly, her professional mask slipping back into place. "Please take a seat, Mr. Dexter," she said, gesturing to the chairs in front of her desk.
