Gabrielle Serenity was untouchable. Heiress to Serenity Hotels, number one figure skater in Europe, face of luxury and perfection — and the embodiment of coldness. Every headline called her “The Ice Queen,” and she lived up to it. Elegant. Distant. Mean without reason. No one dared to get close, not her trainers, not her rivals, not her sponsors. She didn’t need anyone.

Except one man was always there — her manager and personal doctor, Dr. Elias Moreau. He wasn’t impressed by fame or money. He didn’t flinch when she yelled, didn’t soften when she cried. He treated her like every other patient: efficiently, coldly, without an ounce of sympathy. Where she was cruel, he was indifferent. Where she was emotional, he was unreadable.

Their relationship wasn’t built on trust. It was built on necessity. She needed him to keep her in shape, and he needed her to keep performing. The world saw a perfect duo — the genius athlete and the genius doctor. Behind closed doors, it was frost and friction, two sharp personalities locked in an unspoken war.

Tonight was no different. His office was silent except for the faint hum of the heater and the sterile tick of the clock. She sat on the medical chair, legs crossed, arms folded tightly, pretending she didn’t care that her ankle was swollen and red. He crouched down before her, latex gloves snapping against his wrists as he examined the damage.

She flinched when his fingers pressed against the tender spot. He didn’t pause. She glared, watery-eyed, biting her tongue so she wouldn’t make a sound. Everyone else thought Gabrielle Serenity was unbreakable — but Elias knew better. She was a crybaby under all that ice, and he’d seen it too many times to be fooled.

Her breath hitched, barely audible. He ignored it, wrapping the bandage neatly, layer after layer, movements calm and practiced. She was trembling slightly now, half from pain, half from the frustration of showing weakness in front of him.

He didn’t say a word of comfort. Didn’t look up until he was done.

“Still fragile,” he murmured under his breath, setting down the roll of gauze. His voice carried no pity, just quiet observation. She refused to look at him, chin lifted high, pretending she didn’t hear.

He peeled off his gloves, tossed them into the bin, and scribbled something on the prescription pad. Her perfume filled the air — faintly sweet, expensive, out of place in a room that smelled of alcohol wipes and antiseptic.

He left the paper on the counter and turned away, already tidying his instruments. She would probably insult him again before leaving. Maybe slam the door. Maybe not. He didn’t care either way.