Obsession in Frustration
Sleep should have come easily.
It didn't.
The Easton mansion had settled into its midnight silence hours ago. Somewhere down the hall a grandfather clock ticked with relentless patience, marking the seconds of a night that refused to end.
I sat on the floor of the study surrounded by research papers.
Not neatly stacked.
Not organized.
Just spread everywhere like fragments of a puzzle I was determined to solve.
My laptop screen cast a pale glow across the room while medical journals, diagnostic charts, and oncology case reports surrounded me in messy circles. If anyone walked in right now, they'd think I had completely lost my mind.
Maybe I had.
I shouldn't have given in so easily. I wasn't supposed to be stuck in this huge estate.
The Child.
Ariel.
I couldn't bring myself to leave her. I felt a strong need to protect her.
I break myself out of my thoughts.
There was no need to reflect on actions I didn't take. It was of no use. I go back to the medical papers on my desk.
I stared at the reports again.
Something about Ariel's condition didn't sit right with me.
Chronic Lymphocytic Leukaemia was unusual in children. Rare enough that every case required careful scrutiny. Yet the records I had briefly reviewed earlier carried inconsistencies.
Numbers that didn't align.
Symptoms that appeared too aggressive.
And something else… something I couldn't yet name.
I highlighted another research article on the screen.
Mutation patterns.
Immune suppression.
Treatment resistance.
The deeper I dug, the more my instincts screamed that this case wasn't straightforward.
Which meant I couldn't ignore it.
A quiet shift in the air brushed the back of my neck.
I didn't look up immediately.
People often assumed doctors were absent-minded when they worked. That wasn't true. Years of hospital emergencies had sharpened my instincts.
I knew someone was standing behind me.
Watching.
"You've been here for hours."
His voice was calm.
Low.
Controlled.
I leaned back slightly against the couch without lifting my gaze from the screen.
"You're counting?" I asked.
"I observe."
Of course he did.
I finally glanced over my shoulder.
Nicolas Easton leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, dark eyes fixed on the mess of papers surrounding me.
He looked like he had stepped straight out of a luxury magazine—perfect suit, composed posture, effortless authority.
And yet there was something restless in his gaze tonight.
Something sharper.
More impatient.
"You look disappointed," I said dryly.
He stepped inside the room.
"Disappointed isn't the word."
His eyes moved across the floor.
Medical journals.
Printed lab reports.
My laptop.
"You came to California for a vacation," he continued.
"And somehow you've turned my study into a research laboratory."
I shrugged.
"Occupational hazard."
He crouched slightly, picking up one of the papers near my foot.
His eyes scanned the title.
"Leukaemia case progression analysis."
His gaze flicked toward me.
"You're studying Ariel."
It wasn't a question.
"No," I said lightly.
"I'm studying leukaemia."
He didn't look convinced.
Instead, he set the paper down and stood again.
"You work obsessively," he said.
"You're surprised?" I replied.
"I'm intrigued."
That word again.
Intrigue.
Curiosity.
Dangerous things when attached to men like Nicolas Easton.
I turned back to my screen, scrolling through a clinical trial report.
"If you came here to watch me read medical journals, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."
A quiet sound escaped him.
Not quite a laugh.
"Actually," he said slowly, "I came to talk about you."
That made me pause.
I closed the laptop halfway and looked up at him.
"About me?"
His jaw tightened slightly.
"Yes."
He walked farther into the room, stopping a few steps away.
"I asked Michael to run a background check."
I blinked once.
"Should I be flattered or concerned?"
"Neither."
His gaze sharpened.
"You should be confusing."
I tilted my head.
"How so?"
He ran a hand through his hair—a rare gesture of irritation.
"Because you don't exist."
That got my full attention.
"Excuse me?"
"Your records are… clean," he continued.
"Too clean."
He began pacing slowly across the study.
"No scandals. No suspicious financial history. No questionable affiliations. No digital trail beyond your professional life."
He stopped.
"And yet someone like you doesn't just appear out of nowhere."
I leaned back against the couch.
"So your investigation failed."
"Completely."
The word came out sharper than he intended.
That surprised me.
Nicolas Easton didn't look like a man used to failure.
"I see patients," I said calmly.
"I conduct research. I live quietly."
His eyes narrowed.
"No one that talented lives quietly."
A small smile tugged at my lips.
"You'd be surprised."
He stared at me for several seconds.
Trying to read something beneath the surface.
Trying to uncover whatever it was he thought I was hiding.
"You're everywhere," he said finally.
"And nowhere."
His voice dropped lower.
"I've watched you move under pressure, make life-saving decisions without hesitation… yet I know nothing about the person behind it."
His frustration was unmistakable now.
"I don't like unanswered questions."
"Then medicine must drive you insane," I replied.
He ignored the comment.
"You frustrate me."
The honesty in that statement caught me off guard.
I raised an eyebrow.
"Should I apologize?"
"No."
His eyes darkened slightly.
"You should explain."
I laughed softly.
"I don't owe you explanations."
"No," he admitted.
"But I want them."
The room went quiet.
The tension between us thickened like invisible electricity.
I could feel his gaze lingering on me.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Waiting for cracks in the armour.
I didn't give him any.
Instead, I gestured toward the papers surrounding me.
"You're wasting your time."
"How so?"
"Because the only thing I'm focused on right now," I said, tapping one of the research articles, "is leukaemia."
His eyes moved down to the charts again.
"You think something is wrong."
There was no point denying it.
"I think something is unusual."
His posture straightened slightly.
"Explain."
I shook my head.
"Not yet."
That answer didn't satisfy him.
"I don't like partial information."
"Then you and science have a complicated relationship," I said.
Because medicine was rarely neat.
Rarely predictable.
Sometimes the answers arrived slowly.
Painfully.
And sometimes they arrived too late.
Nicolas studied me again.
This time with a different intensity.
"You're hiding something."
"Everyone hides something."
His lips curved faintly.
"Not from me."
I held his gaze.
"Especially from you."
Another quiet silence filled the study.
Then he did something unexpected.
He stepped back.
Not retreating.
Just… giving space.
"For someone so composed," he said thoughtfully, "you're remarkably stubborn."
"I prefer the word independent."
"I prefer the word difficult."
"That too."
A faint smirk touched his mouth.
"You enjoy irritating me."
"Immensely."
He exhaled slowly.
Like he was fighting the urge to push the argument further.
Then his gaze dropped to the research papers again.
"To be clear," he said, voice lower now, "you're not staying here for me."
"Absolutely not."
"You're staying for Ariel."
I nodded once.
"Yes."
He studied my face carefully.
And something in his expression shifted.
Just slightly.
Respect.
Maybe.
Or something dangerously close to it.
Finally he turned toward the door.
But before leaving, he paused.
"One day," he said quietly without looking back, "I'll figure you out."
I didn't respond.
Because the truth was simple.
He probably would try.
Relentlessly.
And Nicolas Easton didn't look like the type of man who abandoned puzzles.
When the door closed behind him, the study felt strangely quieter.
I exhaled slowly.
Then reopened my laptop.
Charts filled the screen again.
Blood cell progression.
Immune response markers.
Genetic mutation studies.
And right in the middle of the data…
One pattern kept repeating.
A pattern I didn't like.
A pattern that suggested Ariel's leukaemia might not be progressing naturally.
I leaned closer to the screen.
My pulse quickening.
Because if my suspicion was correct…
Then Ariel wasn't just sick.
Someone might have made her that way.