Closer

Chapter 3：An Unexpected Patient

Over the next few days, I was so busy I barely had time to think back to that night at the Rosso estate.

The ER never lacked for bleeding people. Ambulances, medical charts, suturing needles, and the smell of disinfectant filled my head.

Only the red marks on my neck reminded me that the night's events hadn't been a dream.

I hid those marks under the topmost button of my collar.

Marcus, of course, wasn't fooled.

"If you button your shirt any higher," he said in a low voice as he passed by with his coffee, "I'll think you're about to check into a convent."

I flipped through a chart without looking up. "At least a convent wouldn't have a mafia don's adopted son choking me."

Marcus looked at me. Behind his glasses, his eyes were quiet but pressing. "Elena, you still won't give up."

"Of course." I closed the chart. "But he hasn't contacted me."

The moment I said it, I realized how clearly I had been paying attention.

After leaving the estate that night, Damian Rosso hadn't called or sent me a gift. And he certainly hadn't used it as an excuse to step into my life.

I gave a wry smile. "Maybe he's already forgotten me. It's really sad."

Marcus patted my shoulder. "Trust me, this is definitely good news."

I didn't respond.

Just then, a commotion came from the ER entrance. Nurse Lily hurried over with a stack of registration forms.

"Dr. Moore, there's a patient in Exam Room 3 who specifically asked for you."

I frowned. "The ER doesn't allow patients to choose their doctor."

"That's what I told him. But he said he's willing to wait."

"Then let him wait." I handed her the chart I'd just signed. "I'll finish with my current patients first."

That matter was soon pushed aside by new wounds, fevers, and cries.

Nearly an hour later, as I stepped out of the treatment room, I remembered the patient in Room 3 who was willing to wait.

I assumed he would have left by then. But at the end of the corridor, the door to Room 3 was still half open.

When I pushed the door open, the man was still sitting on the examination table. He wore a dark gray hoodie and a low‑pulled black baseball cap. Sunglasses covered most of his face, and a mask hid his jaw as well.

I was curious, but also a little speechless, mostly annoyed.

"Sir, this is the emergency room." I stood at the door, not approaching immediately. "We don't offer private, doctor-specified services. If you're not feeling well, any on-call doctors can take care of it for you."

At my words, the man looked up.

Through his sunglasses, I couldn't see his eyes, only the slight tilt of his head. That brief pause felt familiar, like a quiet kind of scrutiny.

"I was waiting for you," he said.

His voice was muffled by the mask, but still deep enough to make my chest tighten.

My fingers tightened on the chart, but out of professional duty, I walked over.

"Alright, where do you need me to check?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he unzipped his jacket and slowly lifted the black T-shirt underneath.

When the edge of white gauze came into view, my breath stopped for a moment. That was the location of the gunshot wound. The one I had stitched up under the emergency room lights with my own hands two months ago.

I jerked my head up.

The man removed his sunglasses and his mask.

Damian Rosso sat on the hospital examination table as naturally as if he were sitting in the master seat of his estate.

"Good morning, Dr. Moore."

I stared at him for two seconds before finding my voice. "Are you insane?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that how a doctor greets a patient?"

"This is how an ER doctor reacts to a patient who's a liar." I closed the door and lowered my voice. "Why are you here? Where are your bodyguards? Where's your personal doctors? And why are you dressed like this?"

"So many questions." He set his sunglasses aside. "Which one do you want to ask first?"

"The most important one." I walked over, forcing my gaze to stay on the wound rather than on his face.

"Why are you here?"

"To get my wound checked."

I glanced at him.

His expression was calm, as if he really were just a patient following up as instructed.

Too bad he was dealing with me.

I put on gloves and lifted a corner of the gauze. The wound had healed beautifully, no bleeding, no infection. Even the new tissue growth looked clean.

"You're lying," I said.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Jumping to conclusions so quickly?"

"The wound is already healed. There's no need for a follow-up. Even if there were, you have your own doctors. You don't need to come alone to St. Mary's, and you certainly don't need to dress like someone trying to evade a police manhunt."

He let out a low chuckle.

That sound pressed close in the small exam room, rolling as if right against my eardrums. I instinctively took half a step back, only to bump into the treatment cart behind me. The metal tray clinked softly.

Damian noticed. His gaze fell on my fingers, then slowly returned to my face.

"You seem nervous."

"A mafia don suddenly sitting in my exam room, it's hard not to be nervous."

"But the first time you met me, your hands were covered in my blood, and they didn't shake."

"Because you were dying." I peeled off my gloves and tossed them in the trash. "Dead people are usually quieter."

He looked at me, a hint of amusement rising in his eyes. "Are you regretting that I survived?"

"I'm regretting that I didn't put you on strict bed rest for six months."

His smile widened.

I hated him for that. I hated that he had barged into my daylight wrapped in danger and yet could sit there as if nothing had happened. The exam room, the hospital, even my heartbeat, all of it seemed meant to run on his terms.

" Tell me the real reason." I crossed my arms.

"I want to take you to dinner."

I blinked, then frowned. "No."

He didn't seem surprised. "You haven't even asked when or where."

"It doesn't matter. The answer is no." I glanced at the door. "I have other patients. Damian, if your wound is fine, please leave."

"I could invest in this hospital and become its largest shareholder."

My hand stopped on the door handle. His tone was as steady as if he were talking about the weather. "Then, with a word from me, you could be promoted quickly or lose your job tomorrow."

I slowly turned around. Whatever nervousness I'd felt was now pushed aside by anger.

"Are you threatening me?"

"No." He said, "I have many ways to make you sit down to dinner with me. Today I chose the most polite one."

"Showing up at my workplace, pretending to be a patient, and then implying you can destroy my career, that's your way of polite?"

"At least it's more polite than having you picked up by my men."

"You're really good at making people feel better."

"I'm not very good at it." He stood up, his tall frame making the small room feel even more cramped. "But I can learn."

My heart skipped a beat, not from fear, or at least not entirely.

He was too close, so close that I could smell the cool and woody scent on him. My neck suddenly ached faintly, as if my body remembered his back in front of me before my mind could.

Footsteps sounded outside the door. Someone in the hallway asked, "Why has Exam Room 3 been occupied so long?"

I snapped back to reality. "You can't stay here."

I lowered my voice. "There are colleagues and patients right outside."

"So?"

"So they'll see you."

"They won't see Damian Rosso." He picked up his sunglasses and put them back on, unhurried. "They'll only see an ordinary patient coming to Dr. Moore for a wound follow-up."

"Do you have any idea what the word ordinary means?"

He looked down at me. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but couldn't hide the almost dangerous smile at the corner of his lips.

"Maybe you can tell me tonight."

"I already said no."

"You can keep saying no." He took half a step closer, his voice dropping. "Then I'll walk out and tell the nurse that I need to file a complaint with the hospital director, because Dr. Moore refused to do a complete examination."

"You're shockingly immature."

"But it's effective."

The footsteps outside grew closer.

I closed my eyes. I could already imagine Lily poking her head in, Marcus standing at the end of the hall, the whole ER watching me.

I couldn't let him stay here and also couldn't let him draw more attention.

"What time?" I gritted out.

Damian smiled. "Seven o'clock. After work, I'll come get you."

"No," I said immediately. "I'll go myself."

He reached out, gently brushing the hair from my ear and tucking it behind my ear, his smile deepening. "I'm not asking for your opinion, Elena."

He opened the exam room door for me. The nurses and patients in the hallway all looked over at once. I could only clutch my chart to my chest and try to maintain a professional expression.

"The wound looks fine," I said, deliberately raising my voice. "Get some rest and avoid strenuous activity."

"Yes, Doctor."

He said those two words in a low and intimate tone, as if deliberately brushing against my nerves.

My cheeks felt warm. I turned immediately and walked toward the nurses' station.

Behind me, Damian, still in his sunglasses and mask, walked calmly through the ER lobby. No one knew who he was, but everyone couldn't help but look at him.

Some men didn't need to show their faces for you to realize how dangerous they were.

Marcus stood by the nurses' station, his gaze shifting from Damian's back to my face.

"That ordinary patient doesn't look ordinary at all." he said.

"He is for wound follow-up." I picked up the next chart.

"Where was he wounded?"

"His pride."

Marcus was silent for two seconds. "That's hard to treat. Elena, are you sure you want to go ahead?"

I looked at the ER entrance. Damian was already gone. All that remained beyond the glass doors was the afternoon sun and a fleeting black car shadow.

"He came to me, I have no reason to turn such a good opportunity away. After all, the best way to destroy Lorenzo is to do it with the help of his father."

Marcus's expression darkened, but he didn't try to stop me.

That day felt impossibly long. I stitched three wounds, treated two cases of alcohol poisoning, and put a cast on a little boy's broken wrist. Every time I looked up at the clock, I told myself I wasn't waiting for Damian.

But at exactly seven o'clock, when I walked out of the hospital's main entrance, sure enough, a black sedan was parked by the curb.

A man in black opened the rear door for me.

"Dr. Moore, Mr. Rosso sent me to pick you up."

I glanced inside. Damian wasn't there.

That made me feel relieved, and oddly a little disappointed.

"Aren't we going to dinner?" I asked as I sat down and the door closed.

"Yes," the driver said.

But twenty minutes later, the car stopped in front of a place that was not a restaurant.

It was a high-end dress boutique. Dark gowns hung in the window, the soft light gilding the fabric like moonlight. A saleswoman was already waiting at the door, smiling as she welcomed me.

I looked at that glass door and felt a sudden sense of unease.

"This is part of dinner?"

The driver opened my door, his tone impeccably respectful.

"The restaurant Mr. Rosso chose has a dress code. This is just the preparation before dinner, Dr. Moore."

I looked down at my white shirt and trousers.

Wonderful.

Not only was Damian Rosso inviting me to dinner, he had also decided what I would wear before I even walked into the restaurant.

I pushed open the door of the dress shop. The glass reflected my face.

Tired, clear-headed, and barely hiding a trace of tension.

In that moment, I suddenly understood. Damian Rosso wasn't inviting me to dinner.

He was inviting me into his rules.