Chapter 24
Mia
The conference room door opens, and my heart stutters in my chest like I'm some first-year resident meeting the chief of surgery. Sebastian strides in with the same deliberate confidence he used to cross my bedroom Saturday night. He’s wearing a crisp white button-down, burgundy tie, and perfectly pressed slacks that don't hint at what lies beneath.
His face is a mask of professional indifference as he takes his seat at the head of the table, not even glancing in my direction.
I grip my pen tighter, focusing on the cool plastic against my fingers instead of the heat crawling up my neck.
Less than twelve hours ago, those hands currently arranging files with clinical precision were tangled in my hair, and his mouth hot against my throat as he whispered filthy promises against my skin.
Now he might as well be a stranger.
"Good morning, everyone," he says, voice steady and controlled, no trace of the man who groaned my name as he came against my palm. "Let's begin."
My leg bounces under the table, an unconscious release of energy I can't contain.
Across from me, Harper raises an eyebrow at my fidgeting, his perfect sandy-blond hair practically radiating judgment.
I force my leg to still and focus on my notepad, where I've been doodling spirals instead of taking proper notes.
"First case," Sebastian announces, leading the staff meeting like it's any other Monday—cool, composed, and fucking clinical.
He hands out files, fields suggestions, offers sharp corrections with that infuriatingly calm tone he always uses when he's in charge. No indication that he spent the weekend with his mouth on my skin, his hands everywhere they shouldn’t have been.
Sitting across from him, I try to act like my body isn’t still humming.
Every glance, every clipped phrase pulls me deeper into a spiral I can’t afford.
When he finally calls on me, his gaze doesn’t linger, but I see the slight clench of his jaw.
Feel it like a phantom touch. He asks for a differential, and I manage an answer.
Then he nods and just… moves on. Like nothing happened.
Like he doesn’t still live under my skin. And all I can do is sit there, biting my lip, pretending I’m not falling apart.
"Moving on to Ms. DuBois," Sebastian continues, sliding another file across the table. "Her condition is deteriorating faster than expected."
I sit up straighter at the mention of Cheryl.
"Her latest labs show liver involvement we hadn't anticipated," Sebastian says, his voice taking on a grim edge. "Dr. Phillips, you were exploring the autoimmune angle. Any progress?"
Finally, he's looking directly at me, professional interest overriding whatever game he's playing by ignoring me. I seize the opportunity, leaning forward, meeting his gaze head-on.
"I've been researching a connection between her symptoms and a rare form of vasculitis that primarily affects the hepatic blood vessels," I say, my voice a lot steadier than I feel. "I'd like to run more targeted tests."
Sebastian holds my gaze for one beat, two, three—long enough that I feel the temperature in the room rise by several degrees. "Approved. Work with Kim on this."
Just like that, his eyes slide away again, and I'm left feeling like I've been doused in cold water. My frustration builds with each passing minute of the meeting, my pen tapping faster against my notepad until Naima shoots me an irritated glance.
The meeting finally wraps up with Sebastian distributing assignments for the day.
His voice never wavers, his posture never slips.
If I didn't have the evidence of his passion mapped across my skin in fading bruises and the memory of his taste still on my tongue, I might believe I imagined the entire weekend.
"That's all for now. We'll reconvene after rounds," he concludes, gathering his papers with efficient movements.
As we leave, I follow three steps behind Sebastian, the other fellows falling into formation around us like planets orbiting a particularly uptight sun.
Our first patient is a fifty-seven-year-old with unexplained weight loss and persistent night sweats.
Sebastian stands at the foot of the bed, fingers resting lightly on the rail as he informs the patient that the treatment started yesterday will help with the symptoms while we narrow down the diagnosis.
As he’s speaking I notice something off on the patient chart. Challenging anyone in front of patients is not in good taste but I can’t keep quiet either. When I bring up potential issues with the patient’s biopsy, Sebastian shoots me a look that would have most people running scared.
But thankfully he doesn’t just shoot down my idea. Though I can tell, he’s not happy with me.
And of course the next few patient visits go the same. All of my concerns are valid, I just didn’t have to raise them so publicly. There’s just this part of me that wants to work him up enough to finally see what he meant when he said disobeying would have consequences.
Our final stop is Cheryl's room. I feel a pang as we enter, she looks worse than when I saw her last. But her eyes still light up when she sees us, especially when they land on Sebastian.
"Well, well, the whole parade today," she says, her voice weaker than I remember but still carrying that sharp edge of humor. "Lucky me."
"Ms. DuBois," Sebastian says, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been hit by a bus, then backed over for good measure," she replies with a frail wave of her hand. "But that's not nearly as interesting as why your pretty bird looks ready to peck your eyes out today."
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling at her directness. Sebastian's back stiffens, and I swear I can see the tips of his ears redden.
"We're exploring some new avenues for your treatment," he says, smoothly redirecting the conversation. "Dr. Phillips has been doing research."
Cheryl's knowing eyes find mine. "Has she now? And what does the good doctor think is happening to me?"
Before Sebastian can answer for me, I step forward. "I think we're dealing with a rare form of the original diagnosis. The treatment protocols are different, and if I'm right, we need to adjust your medications immediately."
Sebastian turns to me, brow furrowed. "That's a significant departure from our current approach."
"Yes," I say, meeting his gaze directly. "It is. And I think it's our best chance at getting Ms. DuBois the treatment she actually needs."
The muscle in Sebastian's jaw jumps again, more pronounced than before. We stare at each other for a long moment, the air between us charged with something far more complex than professional disagreement.
"Oh my," Cheryl murmurs, looking delighted despite her weakened state. "This is better than my soaps."
Sebastian breaks our staring contest first, turning back to Cheryl. "We'll discuss the options and return this afternoon with a revised plan."
As we exit Cheryl's room and gather in the hallway, Sebastian's face is a perfect mask of professional detachment.
"Dr. Langston, continue working with the Richards case.
Dr. El-Sayed, I want you on the immune deficiency workup.
" He turns to me, finally meeting my eyes directly.
"Dr. Phillips, you'll work with Dr. Kim on Ms. DuBois's case.
Run whatever tests you need to prove or disprove your theory. "
He hands me her file without touching my fingers, but I catch the slight tremor in his hand—another crack in that perfect control. "Have the results on my desk by end of day."
With that, he turns and walks away. The other fellows disperse, leaving Jonah shifting nervously beside me.
"Uh, should we get started?" he asks, glancing between me and Sebastian's retreating back. "I've never seen you challenge him like that. Is everything okay?"
I watch Sebastian disappear around the corner, the tight set of his shoulders promising consequences I'm suddenly eager to face.
"Everything's perfect, Jonah," I say, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. "Let's go run those tests."
By the time we’ve run the tests and we’re waiting on lab results, I decide I’m ready to face of wrath of Dr. Sebastian Walker.
I stand outside his office, my hand hovering over the doorknob as if it might burn me.
The hallway stretches empty in both directions, most of the staff busy with patients in other wings.
My heart pounds against my ribs, a mix of nerves and anticipation making my fingers tremble slightly.
I spent all morning poking the bear, and now I'm about to walk straight into his den.
Without knocking, I push the door open and slip inside before I can talk myself out of it.
Sebastian sits behind his desk, head bent over charts, completely absorbed in his work.
His white coat is draped over the back of his chair, and he's rolled his sleeves up to expose those forearms that never fail to make my mouth go dry.
He hasn't noticed me yet, and for a moment, I just watch him—the furrow of concentration between his brows, the way his fingers trace lines of text as he reads, the slight downturn of his mouth as he makes notes in the margin.
The door clicks shut behind me, and his head snaps up. For a split second, surprise flashes across his features before his expression settles into something darker, more controlled. But his eyes, those eyes can't lie. They darken the moment they land on me.
"Dr. Phillips," he says, voice deceptively calm. "I don't recall scheduling a meeting."
I don't answer. Instead, I cross the room with deliberate steps, circling his desk until I'm standing directly beside him. His body tenses, though he doesn't move, doesn't look up at me again. Just keeps reading his chart as if I'm not even there.
Two can play that game. I hitch myself onto the edge of his desk, right in front of him, my legs dangling just inches from his chair. Papers crinkle beneath me, and I hear his sharp intake of breath.
"Dr. Phillips," he repeats, his voice carrying a warning edge now. "What are you doing?"
"Getting your attention," I reply, keeping my voice light even as my heart hammers. "Since you've been so determined to avoid looking at me all morning."
Sebastian stands in one fluid motion, and suddenly he's looming over me, planting his hands on either side of my hips, effectively caging me in against the desk. His face is inches from mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath.
"What the hell were you doing during rounds?" he growls.
Tilting my head, I meet his gaze directly. My heart is racing so fast I'm sure he can hear it, but I keep my voice steady. "The truth? I was riling you up on purpose. You're looking through me, not at me, like this weekend never happened."
His jaw ticks, that same muscle jumping that I'd been watching all day. His fingers flex against the desk on either side of me. "You deliberately undermined my authority in front of patients and staff," he says, voice tight. "Because you were feeling ignored?"
Put like that, it sounds childish. But we both know it's more complicated than that. "No," I counter. "I challenged your medical decisions because they needed to be challenged." I lean in closer, putting me nearly nose to nose with him. "The fact that it got under your skin was just a bonus."
His nostrils flare slightly. "You think this is a game?" His voice drops even lower, a dangerous rumble that sends heat pooling between my legs. "Testing me in front of the others, pushing to see how far I'll let you go before I snap?"
"Is it working?"
Something shifts in his eyes then, the anger giving way to something darker, something more delicious.
His right hand moves from the desk to my throat, long fingers wrapping around it with just enough pressure to make my pulse jump beneath his touch.
My breath catches as a jolt of desire shoots through me.
"Actions have consequences, Mia," he murmurs.
His thumb traces my jawline, a deceptively gentle touch that contrasts with the heat in his eyes.
His fingers tighten fractionally. "You spend all morning challenging me, pushing me, and then come into my office and plant yourself on my desk like you own it. Like you own me."
"Don't I?" The words, breathy and bold, escape before I can stop them.
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Then show me," I whisper.
The last thread of his control snaps. His mouth crashes down on mine, hard and demanding.
His hand is still wrapped around my throat, and he digs his fingers into my skin, applying the slightest amount of pressure.
The kiss is nothing like the ones we shared over the weekend, this is punishment, domination, and a battle for control I'm suddenly not sure I want to win.
His tongue pushes past my lips, demanding entrance that I eagerly grant. My hands fly to his shoulders, fingers digging into the hard muscle there as I arch into him.
Just when I'm about to pull him closer, to wrap my legs around his waist and demand more, he breaks the kiss. We're both breathing hard, his eyes nearly black with desire as he looks down at me.
"You want my attention?" he says, voice rough. "You have it. But you don't get to set the terms anymore." His thumb traces my lower lip, still sensitive from his kiss. "That's my job now."
I swallow hard, feeling the slight pressure of his fingers against my throat as I do. "And what are the terms?"
His smile is slow and predatory, and shit if it doesn’t send a fresh wave of heat between my thighs. "Bad girls don't get to come," he says, his voice dropping low. "But I do."
The hand at my throat slides up to cup my jaw, tilting my face up to his. "You spent all morning pushing me, testing my control," he continues. "Now you get to experience the consequences."
His lips brush against mine, so light it's barely a touch at all.
"Kneel."