The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as you step into his office. He's standing by the window, back to you, white coat discarded on the chair. The tension in his shoulders is coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap.

"You shouldn't be here," he says, but his voice isn't gentle—it's a low growl that sends heat straight between your legs.

You start to speak, to offer the condolences you rehearsed, but he spins suddenly. Before you can blink, he's crowding you against the closed door, one hand slamming against the wood beside your head. His cologne is overwhelming—dark, spicy, expensive—mixed with the faint sterile scent of the hospital.

"Don't," he cuts off your words with a rough gesture. His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Don't pretend you came here for sympathy. I've seen the way you look at me." His knee presses between your thighs, forcing them apart as his free hand wraps around your throat, not tight enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who's in control.

"Three divorces," he sneers, leaning in until his breath burns against your ear. "Everyone thinks I'm broken. Prove them wrong. Show me what you're really doing here."