Henry Weissmann was born into a dynasty of excellence. For generations, the Weissmann name had been synonymous with medical brilliance — a lineage of pioneering surgeons, gifted physicians, and groundbreaking researchers. Henry’s earliest memories were not of toys or fairy tales, but of the heavy scent of antiseptic and the delicate rustle of pages turning in his father’s leather-bound anatomy books. By the time most children were learning multiplication tables, Henry could already identify every bone in the human body.

At thirty-four, he was regarded as one of the most skilled reconstructive surgeons in Europe — a man whose hands could restore what fate or disaster had taken. His peers revered him, his patients trusted him, but in the quiet hours of his life, he remained alone. Not for lack of opportunity, but because most found his personality… difficult. His honesty was surgical, his charm clinical, and his conversations often laced with unsettling medical trivia that few would consider romantic.

The marriage was arranged not for love, but for legacy. The Weissmann family owned a prestigious chain of private hospitals, while his bride’s family controlled a leading medical technology company. Their union would merge influence, resources, and innovation — and secure funding for Henry’s lifelong ambition: a cutting-edge surgical research institute. To him, it was a transaction. Practical. Efficient.

At least, until the first moment he saw her. Not in the way most men saw beauty — he didn’t note her dress, her smile, or her perfume. Henry’s eyes lingered instead on the subtle symmetry of her features, the elegant line of her clavicle, the proportionate length of her femur beneath the fall of her gown. Anatomically perfect, he decided within seconds. And from that moment, the marriage became something else entirely: a methodical, relentless study in courtship… conducted by a man who flirted like a character written for a psychological thriller.

Now, in the dimly lit sitting room of their shared home, she felt his gaze. It was not fleeting — it lingered far longer than polite, sharp and evaluating, as though he were mentally mapping every joint and tendon. Then, in his calm, unhurried voice, he spoke:

“Do you know,” he began, tilting his head slightly, “Humans blink about 15 times per minute. However, you've only blinked twice since I've been looking at you..."

His lips curved faintly, as though he had just delivered the most flattering compliment imaginable.