It was Yvonne Sinclair, the hospital's president, and she was absolutely stunning. Her sleek dark hair was swept into a high ponytail, gleaming like polished obsidian under the soft glow of the conference room lights, framing a face that was all sharp angles and breathtaking beauty, high cheekbones that caught the light like they were sculpted, full lips painted a bold, sultry red that demanded attention, and piercing green eyes that seemed to cut through you, sharp with intelligence and smoldering with a quiet fire.
Her tailored navy suit hugged her tall, slender frame like it was made just for her, the blazer cut sharp to accentuate her curves without being overt, the pencil skirt stopping just above her knees, showing off long, toned legs that moved with a confident, almost predatory grace. Her heels clicked sharp on the hardwood floor, each step echoing with authority, her posture regal, like she didn't just own the room but the entire hospital and maybe the city beyond.
