The word "Mistress" hung in the humid, antiseptic-heavy air of the Riverbend General Hospital's VIP wing like a phantom.
Serena Ashford froze, her hand still white-knuckled on the door handle. The sound of it—the sheer absurdity of a man who looked to be in his late sixties, a man with the distinguished bearing of a scholar, addressing her with such archaic, subservient respect—sent a jolt of confusion through her exhausted mind. She turned her head slowly, her eyes tracing the lines of the elderly man’s face. He didn't look like a street thug or a common hustler. He looked like the kind of man who would be invited to lecture at the Grand Hall of Medicine.
She blinked, her long eyelashes wet with the remnants of her tears. "I... I’m sorry?" she stammered, her voice a mix of disbelief and
