The afternoon sun gradually angled westward, casting several cold, rigid, and structured long shadows from the old Huo family estate's heavy, carved window frames onto the floor tiles.
From the vibrant orange orchard in the backyard, Hunter's highly childish laughter could still be faintly heard. Inside the third-floor study, however, a tranquility akin to dead silence reigned.
Hunter Sr. had not followed them to the backyard. He sat entirely alone on a pure black leather office chair, half-submerged in the shadows. His impeccably tailored suit, lacking even a single wrinkle, made his demeanor appear all the more cold and unyielding. As the current helmsman of the Huo clan, he was accustomed to controlling everything, accustomed to the trembling expressions of his subordinates whenever they heard his name.
Yet at this moment, this top-tier Alpha who held the power of life and death over a multinational conglomerate was merely staring at the illuminated mobile screen on his desk, his expression obscure.
A contact page rested quietly in the center of the screen, featuring an exceptionally brief remark consisting of just two crisp words: [Luke].
Hunter Sr.'s thin lips pursed into a rigid arc, his long fingers hovering above the screen. For a rare moment, he hesitated for a long duration.
That doctor was an incredibly dense, unyielding Beta.
Recalling an acute flare-up of stomach pain last month due to consecutive rounds of high-intensity work, Hunter Sr., under the strong urging of his executive assistant, had stepped into that rather inconspicuous, small private clinic in the East District for the very first time. That day, Luke wore a slightly loose white lab coat and a rigid pair of black semi-rimless glasses, his overly clean and delicate face completely written with an expressionless mask from start to finish.
Following a practiced round of examinations, Luke tapped the printed prescription sheet with fingers that were exceptionally beautiful yet cold enough to lack a shred of warmth.
Two boxes of the most ordinary stomach medication were tossed in front of Hunter Sr., accompanied by the doctor's detached voice without him even lifting his head: "Mr. Huo, stomach medication only treats the symptoms. I've written the medical advice on the sheet. Go back."
At the time, Hunter Sr. had paid no heed. It was only when he returned home that, acting entirely on a strange whim, he cast a glance at that sheet bearing a flamboyant handwriting.
In the medical advice column at the absolute bottom, the young Beta doctor had written a single line in a clean, sharp script that verged on provocative: [Eat your meals on time. Don't invent excuses to visit the clinic.]
At that moment, having lived for nearly thirty years and always being flattered by everyone around him, Hunter Sr. felt severely offended for the first time in his life. Who was he? He was Hunter Huo Sr. With a mere wave of his hand, the most elite medical teams in the entire capital would line up to enter the old Huo family estate. What right did an unknown private clinic doctor have to speak to him in such a tone?
Yet bizarrely, upon returning to the master bedroom, he acted as though he were possessed, personally and properly inserting that slightly wrinkled prescription sheet right into his most frequently used black document folder that he carried with him every single day.
Furthermore, during the subsequent month, he ghosted his way back there twice more on strange whims.
The first time, the grand CEO found himself the excuse of a "stomach disease follow-up."
The second time, he sat righteously upon the consultation chair in the clinic, his tone completely unruffled as he informed the other party that he was merely "passing by."
And what about Luke?
That cool, detached Beta doctor remained expressionless every single time. He did not even bother to let his gaze linger for an extra half-second on Hunter Sr.'s handsome and highly oppressive face. He simply kept his head lowered, his slender fingers gripping a black sign pen, writing rapidly into the medical record booklet with sharp scritch-scratching sounds.
While prescribing the medication, Luke wrote down several pieces of "toxic-tongued" medical advice that completely deviated from what a qualified, gentle attending physician should write, bordering slightly on sarcasm:
[Stomach disease is a fair mechanism; it won't purposely take a detour just because you are Hunter Huo Sr.]
[Drink black coffee again, and you can head straight to the emergency room next time. I don't accept critical cases here.]
It wasn't until last week, when Hunter Sr. uttered that line about "passing by," that Luke finally paused his pen mid-write.
The young doctor slowly removed his black semi-rimless glasses, his overly clear eyes—which seemed capable of piercing through any disguise—meeting Hunter Sr.'s gaze straight-on. Afterward, he heavily drew a circle on the medical record booklet with his sign pen, reading out the final piece of medical advice in a voice completely devoid of ripples:
[Last time, you said you were passing by. If my memory serves me correctly, the Huo Group headquarters is in the West District, while my clinic is in the East District. Separated by twenty-three kilometers and a two-hour traffic jam in between—Mr. Huo's definition of 'passing by' is truly unique.]
That was the first time in his entire life that Hunter Sr. had his hypocritical mask as a superior torn open right to his face.
Yet the eerie thing was, far from blowing his top, a certain corner of his heart felt as though it had been gently nudged by something in that split second. For the first time, he felt that being stripped of all his additional halos of identity, status, and pheromones—and being seen through purely as an ordinary human being—did not feel as terrible as he had imagined.
In fact... it was somewhat addictive, like a scratch to an itch.
Inside the study, the pendulum of the antique clock let out heavy ticking sounds.
Hunter Sr. lowered his gaze, his eyes sweeping across those words once more. Finally, his slender fingertip moved marginally, pressing down heavily on the dial button.
Ring... Ring...
The phone rang a mere two times before it was picked up.
"Hello."
The voice traveling from the receiver was clean and cool as always, even carrying a sliver of perfunctoriness from just having finished typing on a keyboard. It was like the first snowflake falling in the East District during winter, untainted by a single shred of private, emotional impurity.
Hunter Sr.'s fingers gripping the phone tightened a fraction unconsciously. He cleared his throat, doing his utmost to make his voice sound as though he were presiding over a business negotiation worth tens of billions, steady and certain: "Hello, Dr. Luke. Do you have time next weekend? My grandfather wishes to invite you to the estate for a casual dinner."
The other end of the line instantly fell into an incredibly bizarre silence.
During those long three seconds, Hunter Sr. could even hear Luke's exceptionally faint yet highly rhythmic breathing traveling through the receiver. That breathing was like a feather, scratching time and time again against the tip of his heart, which had long been as hard as iron from the business world.
Three seconds later, Luke's voice, tranquil to the point of lacking any fluctuation, traveled over once more:
"Mr. Huo, if my memory has not experienced a deviation, I am your attending physician, not your boyfriend."
This rejection was clean, decisive, and even carried a glaring sense of boundary lines. If anyone else dared to speak to Hunter Sr. with such an attitude, their name would have likely been purged from the Huo Group's cooperation list this very instant.
Yet standing before the French windows of the study, the grand CEO merely arched his eyebrows slightly.
He looked out the window at the orange orchard dyed a golden red by the setting sun, the corner of his lips curving into an exceptionally rare, subtle arc that even carried a fraction of roguishness.
"I know."
Hunter Sr. spoke in a deep voice, his low, magnetic tone carrying an indisputable dominance and seriousness: "Which is why right now, I am pursuing you."
The words "pursuing you" were enunciated with absolute clarity by him, crashing directly and scaldingly toward the clinic twenty kilometers away in the East District along the cold radio waves.
The other end of the line fell into silence once more.
This time, the silence similarly maintained itself for a precise, full three seconds.
The wind outside the window seemed to blow a bit faster, kicking up a few golden ginkgo leaves to press against the glass pane. Hunter Sr. waited patiently; he could even visualize exactly how Luke, on the other end of the line, would definitely knit those handsome brows slightly at this very moment, tossing his sign pen onto the desk fluidly.
Three seconds later, Luke's detached yet crisp voice resounded once more, only this time, that stable cadence finally broke format to carry a shred of speechless self-doubt:
"...Mr. Huo, are you certain your call today is truly due to a stomach issue, and not because your brain has developed some other complication?"
Hearing this question that verged on an insult, Hunter Sr. did not experience a shred of anger. Instead, a highly low, muffled chuckle escaped his chest.
That laughter traveled through the receiver, drawing out an exceptionally secretive yet pure-to-the-extreme romantic tension.
"Dr. Luke, I am very sober." Hunter Sr. shifted to a slightly more relaxed posture, leaning against the edge of the desk, his cadence gaining a sliver of indulgence that he himself had not detected. "Therefore, the invitation for next weekend remains valid. You can consider it slowly; I am in no hurry."
"Hanging up, I have a patient."
Luke tossed out five stiff words, directly cutting off the call with immense ruthlessness.
Beep—Beep—Beep—
The busy tone resonated through the receiver once more.