"Have you lost your damn mind," Gregory Astor bellowed, dragging his hand across the desk and sending files, a crystal decanter, and a framed photo crashing to the floor. Veins bulged in his neck and forehead; he looked one shout away from a stroke.
Alexander Astor stared back with flat, soulless eyes. He didn't flinch at the mess. He didn't feel the need to. Anger was just noise, interesting in small doses, irrelevant in large ones. He understood why his father was furious. He just didn't care.
"Last I checked," Alex said evenly, "my mind's intact. I just finished a high-risk heart surgery on a 72-year-old, three prior chest operations, ruptured artery. No complications. The patient's off the ventilator this morning."
Gregory's face purpled further. "You think that excuses last night? You went to the Whitaker Foundation gala in my place, representing *this* hospital and you beat Preston Whitaker to a pulp. His father is one of our biggest donors. They're threatening charges. I had to beg them not to sue."
Alex tilted his head slightly. "I was defending myself. He grabbed my arm. I removed the threat."
"Removed the threat?" Gregory barked a laugh that held no humor. "You crushed his larynx. He's in the ICU on a ventilator. You call that defense?"
"Actually," Alex corrected, voice calm and precise, "it was his hyoid and cricoid bones. His larynx was displaced. Efficient application of force. He'll recover. Probably."
Gregory stared at him like he was looking at a stranger. Or a machine. "You're unbelievable. You will go apologize. Personally. Today."
"I will not." Alex's tone didn't rise. "If you force me, the apology will be empty. He'll know. Everyone will know. Pointless."
Gregory slapped Alex across the cheek. The sound cut through the silence of the office.
Alex didn't react. No flinch. No hand to his face. He simply straightened his white coat collar, the faint red mark already fading. Pain was inconsequential. Irrelevant.
The door opened without a knock.
"Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Astor," the secretary said, eyes darting nervously to the wreckage on the floor. "There's a Mr. Harper here to see you."
Gregory fixed his tie, exhaled like he was resetting a machine. "Send him in."
He turned to Alex. "Get out. You disgust me. I should have sent Anthony in your place."
Alex's lips curved—not a smile, just the shape of one. No warmth. No mirth. "Yes. You should have sent your favorite son, Father."
He rose smoothly, adjusting the sleeves of his white coat as the door opened wider.
Dashiell Harper stepped in.
Alex experienced a rare, genuine pause—half a second of recalibration. The man was smaller than expected. Maybe 5'7". Slim, almost delicate under the tailored shirt and slacks. But the face, high cheekbones, warm hazel eyes framed by light brown waves. Handsome in a way that felt unfair.
Gregory blinked. "Oh. It's you, Dashiell. I thought you were your father."
Dashiell's gaze flicked to Alex briefly, assessing, then looked away.
"I'd like to marry your son, Mr. Astor," Dashiell said plainly. "In place of my sister."
The room went still.
Gregory leaned back, eyebrows climbing. "What?"
"My sister refused him," Dashiell continued, voice calm and collected despite how nervous he felt inside. "I have no issue taking her place."
Alex stared. Amused. Genuinely amused. The corner of his mouth twitched.
Gregory snorted. "And you're assuming my son's interested in men? What if he isn't?"
Dashiell didn't blink. "Based on my research on Mr. Astor Jr. and his many relationships, he shows no exclusive preference for one gender."
Alex made a low, breathy sound, half amusement, half disbelief. "You've gotta be kidding me."
Dashiell ignored him. "To make my proposition more… useful: I'm a pediatric neurologist. Competent. I'll be far more helpful to you than my social-media-obsessed sister."
Gregory laughed, genuine this time, amusement lighting his tired eyes. "Damn right you've made your case. You can have my son."
Alex's eyes narrowed. "I have no say in this? I'm right here."
Gregory waved a dismissive hand. "You can marry him… if you agree to work for Astor Medical Center."
Dashiell stiffened. All his years at Harper Regional Medical Center, routines and quiet life… the thought of change prickled his skin. But the hospital was struggling.
"I will work for your hospital," he said.
Gregory clapped once. "Perfect. Tomorrow you wed."
Dashiell finally acknowledged Alex, reaching into his pocket to pull out a simple plain platinum band.
"Will you marry me?" he asked, holding it out.
Alex examined the ring as if it were a specimen. Irritation flickered, brief but controlled. "Do I even have a choice?"
Dashiell's reply was immediate, and matter-of-fact. "It seems not."
He lifted Alex's left hand gently but firmly, sliding the ring onto his finger.
Then he smiled. Small and Polite. A soft curve that reached his eyes, warming them in the office light.
Alex stared at the band, at the man who had just claimed him, at the certainty in those hazel eyes.
For the first time in years, something stirred under the ice. Sharp. Unwelcome. Dangerously curious.
Tomorrow, they will be married. And nothing would ever be the same.