Chapter 9: Roxana – An Immovable Object

Duncan glanced at the nurses clustered nearby. They were whispering, shuffling, and subtly pushing one another forward like sacrificial offerings. Every few seconds, one would take a brave half-step toward the door… and immediately retreat.

Of course, they wanted to be near the tall, devastatingly handsome man who had arrived earlier.

They just didn’t want to go anywhere near the other one. The demon-adjacent woman. The one currently inside the room.

Duncan wept internally.

He had tried reasoning with them. Calm, polite reasoning. Strategic reasoning. Even mild bribery. None of it worked.

All because his boss’s beloved little sister had started speaking Latin right before attacking a gentleman with a fruit knife.

Latin.

Now the entire hospital was convinced she was either demon-possessed or the opening act of an exorcism documentary.

What am I supposed to do?

“The Hunter” would come out any second. He would ask, in that quiet, courteous voice that made grown senators sweat, why no one had checked on his sister while she’d been awake for this long.

And Duncan would have to answer.

He liked his job. He liked his paycheck. Above all, he liked being alive.

He clasped his hands together, staring at the nurses with desperation in his eyes.

“Please,” he begged silently. “Ancestors, dearest ancestors. I have been a good man. I pay my taxes. I recycle.”

One nurse shook her head furiously.

Another crossed herself.

Duncan swallowed.

“Please,” he whispered to them now. “Just… just go look at my boss’s sister.”

Before Alexander Hunter Preston came out and reminded everyone why people in power feared him more than lawsuits, prison, or God.

And as if the universe hadn’t already decided Duncan Wesley’s suffering quota for the day, a woman approached them down the hallway.

He didn’t need her to introduce herself. He didn’t need to read the badge. He didn’t even need the hospital logo stamped on the folder she was clutching like a weapon.

He knew.

The tight ponytail.

The sensible heels.

The glasses perched with militant precision.

The file thick enough to ruin lives.

The hospital’s legal liaison.

Duncan sighed. Not subtly. Not gracefully. It was the sigh of a man watching his livelihood sprint toward traffic.

Of course, she was here.

Damn that Murphy and his damned law. Everything was going wrong today. The boss didn’t attend any cases today and stayed beside his sister, and a senator and a congressman were mad.

And now… this.

The boss’s sister had been awake for far too long. No nurse had checked on her. No doctor had followed up. And earlier…earlier, there had been a fruit knife, Latin incantations, and an attempted stabbing of a man who technically qualified as a Good Samaritan.

This was not a “quick chat” situation.

This was a paperwork tsunami situation.

The liaison slowed as she approached, eyes sharp, posture crisp, already mentally drafting phrases like liability exposure, failure of duty of care, and incident escalation protocol.

Duncan swallowed.

Fantastic.

Not only was Alexander Hunter Preston about to exit that room, but now there was a fellow lawyer present, one whose entire job was to protect the hospital from people exactly like his boss.

Great. Just great.

Duncan clasped his hands together and stared at the ceiling.

So this was it.

This was how he died.

Not in a courtroom. Not in a scandal. Definitely, not of old age.

But in a hospital hallway, between terrified nurses, a legal liaison, and the imminent arrival of the most dangerous man on Capitol Hill.

He straightened his tie anyway. One should look professional at one’s execution.

“Roxana Hollister,” the liaison introduced herself.

She smiled, but it was the kind of smile that existed purely for legal compliance. It didn’t reach her cold blue eyes. Her lips were thin, pressed with discipline, and her bare face carried the unmistakable glow of power, the sort that suggested intimidation might actually run in her bloodline.

Her gaze swept over the nurses.

“Who wants to get fired today?” she asked pleasantly.

The effect was immediate.

The nurses lined up with the speed and obedience of soldiers responding to an air raid siren. Duncan watched in silent awe as they practically volunteered themselves into the room, performing preliminary checks with the enthusiasm of people who very much enjoyed having jobs.

Roxana remained outside, arms crossed, posture immaculate, waiting until the doctors finished examining the Princess Demon—ahem, the boss’s sister.

Then came the psychiatrist.

Roxana waited through that too.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t hover. Didn’t rush. She simply stood there, observing, letting the hospital complete every single protocol required to cover its own skin.

Duncan felt… impressed. And deeply, existentially afraid.

Once the last procedure concluded, Roxana adjusted her suit jacket, smoothed an invisible wrinkle, and cleared her throat.

Then she walked toward the door.

It was time.

Time to address the incident.

Time to discuss the knife.

Time to talk about attempted murder, patient safety, liability, and the fact that Alexander Hunter Preston’s sister had tried to reenact a medieval execution using a hospital fruit knife.

Duncan’s stomach tied itself into a knot so tight it could qualify as modern art.

This woman was not a pushover. Every step she took screamed methodical destruction. And Hunter Alex, God help them all, was an unstoppable force when it came to his dearest sister.

Duncan swallowed.

What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?

He had a feeling he was about to find out.

From a very unsafe distance.

God, help me!

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