Chapter Three: The Terms of Surrender

The doors of the operating room swung open, and Lucien emerged not as a man leaving a battle, but as a general who had conquered a treacherous landscape. The faint sheen of sweat on his brow was the only concession to the ordeal, quickly wiped away with a sterile towel. His steel-grey eyes, however, were as sharp and cold as ever.

He was met not by the usual recovery team alone, but by a wall of suits—the Morozov entourage. At their center stood the old man from the phone, Sergei Morozov, his face a granite mask of fury and anxiety. A younger, sharper-looking man flanked him, his eyes constantly scanning for threats.

Before Sergei could speak, Lucien’s voice cut through the hallway, quiet yet absolute, silencing the murmured questions.

“He will live,” Lucien stated, not as good news, but as a simple fact. “The damage was extensive. A shard of the steering column was 2.3 millimeters from piercing his left ventricle. I have repaired a ruptured bronchus, a lacerated spleen, and re-inflated a collapsed lung.”

He paused, letting the gravity of the injuries sink in. Then, he delivered his edict.

“His recovery is now my professional concern. And these are my conditions.” He turned his gaze fully to Sergei, meeting the patriarch’s stormy eyes without a flicker of fear. “He does not leave this hospital for a minimum of three months. He will remain here, in the VIP wing, under my direct observation. Any attempt to move him to a private home or unvetted facility will be considered a deliberate act of self-sabotage.”

Sergei Morozov’s jaw tightened. “We have doctors. We have a fully equipped—”

“You have butchers who are paid to agree with you,” Lucien interrupted, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I do not. If you have a problem with my terms, tell me now.” He gestured indifferently back toward the OR. “I will gladly reopen his chest, remove the sutures, and you can take him from this hospital as he is. I assure you, he will not survive the journey home.”

A stunned silence choked the hallway. Even the Morozov soldiers stared, aghast at the sheer, ice-cold audacity of the surgeon.

Lucien continued, relentless. “I am not a traveling physician. I will not be making house calls to your mansion. He stays here. I will check on him. My word on his care is final. If you disrupt my protocols, the consequences are on you.”

He finally broke eye contact with the speechless Sergei, turning to the pale, trembling hospital director. “Have him transferred to the VIP suite on my floor. Post my security at the door. No one enters without my explicit authorization.”

With that, he turned and walked away, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the silent hall. He had just performed a miracle of medicine and then threatened to undo it in the same breath. He had taken a man who commanded armies from the shadows and made him a prisoner in a hospital bed.

Lucien Armand had been forced to save a life, but in doing so, he had seized control of it. The game had begun, and he had just drawn the first, unbreakable line.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***