Although the Harry Medical Center in London wasn't as internationally renowned as the Wellington Hospital, its prime location—just north of Buckingham Palace—spoke volumes about its prestige.
Lush, meticulously trimmed hedges lined the perimeter, giving the place an air of exclusivity. The steady stream of luxury cars in and out only reinforced its reputation for top-tier care—and its ability to attract deep-pocketed clients.
Lying on his hospital bed, Claire stared bored at the TV.
Every time the news flashed headlines like—
- "Manchester United's Third Star!"
- "The Landlord's Dumb Son!"
- "The Nights' Viral Sensation!"
—he'd scowl and mutter, "What a load of crap! So I got hit in the head and didn't do a knee-slide celebration—big deal!"
Annoyed, he'd mash the remote, flipping channels aimlessly. His thumb moved on its own, betraying his real interest—though he'd never admit it.
"What's wrong with you? She's off auditioning for Transformers! Once that movie blows up, she'll be America's hottest star. What's the point of simping?"
Claire's habit of talking to himself hadn't changed. But just as he was about to continue his rant, his heart suddenly clenched.
His smug expression paled instantly. Raising a hand in surrender, he groaned, "Alright, alright! I give up! I'll listen to you. I'll become a damn superstar too!"
Wrapped in thick bandages, Claire lay motionless—save for his occasional dramatic flailing. Luckily, the blaring TV drowned out his antics. Otherwise, the pretty nurses waiting outside his door for autographs might've gotten an eyeful.
---
A pink Maserati weaved through the streets near the medical center with practiced ease, pulling up smoothly to the staff parking lot at the back.
Couples strolling near Hyde Park turned their heads, some even snapping photos of the eye-catching car.
The two security guards at the rear entrance didn't stop it. Instead, the younger white guard nudged his partner and bragged, "Man, when I make it big, I'll have a beauty like that visiting me every day."
"Sure—if you've got a footballer friend willing to start a brawl for you on the pitch," his buddy shot back.
Unfazed, the guard flashed a peace sign at the gawking crowd.
Out stepped Danielle Sharp, dressed in a British high school uniform, oversized black sunglasses perched on her nose.
She didn't head inside immediately. Instead, she circled to the passenger side, grabbing armfuls of expensive health supplements, before marching toward the inpatient wing.
The moment she entered, her usual cool-girl aura melted away.
With a bright smile, her high ponytail swaying, she radiated youthful energy.
"Danielle! Here to see Claire again?"
"Yep! That witch hasn't shown up yet, has she?"
"Oh, she's here—just beat you by a few minutes." The head nurse leaned in conspiratorially. "Listen, sweetheart, a talented boy like Claire? You've gotta keep an eye on him. Who knows when he might… slip up?"
Danielle kept smiling, but the second they parted ways, her expression flipped like a switch.
Eyes icy, she gritted her teeth and muttered, "Hmph."
Despite her disdain, her footsteps quickened.
---
Meanwhile, lounging near the entrance in skin-tight black leather, Lucy Pinder scrolled through her phone, occasionally glancing up.
If Danielle was a blooming rose, Lucy was a winter plum—elegant, mature, and dangerously alluring.
And in this setting, Lucy's vibe drew far more attention.
Several older men in hospital gowns—each flashing business cards boasting titles like "Director of This" or "Shareholder of That"—hovered around her.
Lucy half-heartedly entertained them, though her mind was elsewhere.
Then—she appeared.
The moment Danielle stepped into view, the air between them crackled with tension.
"Oh? The old hag's here early," Danielle sneered.
Lucy didn't miss a beat. "Shouldn't you be in class, kid? Just because you took your jacket off and screamed at a football game doesn't mean he'll notice you. I'm here because his uncle asked me to look after him."
Danielle's eye twitched.
The two boarded the elevator together—a warzone in a metal box.
Lucy, ever the provocateur, casually undid two more buttons on her already strained leather top, smirking as Danielle's gaze flicked downward.
Danielle's chest? Decent.
Lucy's? A weapon.
"Hmph!" Danielle turned away, refusing to engage further.
Lucy, victorious, hummed The Nights under her breath while adjusting her outfit in the elevator mirror.
Thankfully, no third party witnessed this clash of titans.