The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and quiet judgment.
I crossed one leg over the other, the paper gown already trying to gap open across my thighs, and stared at the framed diploma on the wall like it had personally offended me. Dr. Lucian Voss. Board-certified. Top of his class. The kind of man whose reviews online called him “thorough,” “professional,” and “unflinching.” I had chosen him specifically because the other gynecologists in the city treated me like a fragile little flower. I was neither fragile nor little, and I needed someone who wouldn’t blush when I said the word “cock.”
The door opened.
“Miss Sloane Hart?”
I looked up—and nearly swallowed my tongue.
The man standing in the doorway was tall enough to make the frame look small. Dark hair, sharp jaw, pale blue eye
