A scream ripped across the set.

Jason Cross doubled over so fast he looked like someone had folded him in half. Sweat broke out across his forehead almost instantly, and he clutched his side like the pain had reached in and twisted something raw.

I pulled my hand back and shook my head with professional disappointment.

“Yep,” I said. “Bone density’s not great either. You should probably add calcium.”

For one full second, the live chat froze.

Then it exploded.

[WAIT WHAT??]
[Is this real or is she making this up??]
[NO WAY she actually got that right.]
[He really reacted like she hit an injury…]

2

My name is Claire Morgan.

And I was pretty sure this was the exact moment my time on this show was about to end.

Which was fine by me.

I turned, already planning to find the least visible corner of the set and quietly wait to be voted off, when I felt it.

A stare.

Sharp and cold, like a scalpel gliding down my spine.

I turned back.

In the darkest corner of the studio, a man was sitting silently, one arm resting against the chair like he had been watching the whole thing unfold for his own private amusement.

He wore a plain black button-down shirt, fastened all the way to the throat. Clean lines. No jewelry. No softness. He didn’t look casual. He looked curated. Controlled. Like something carved instead of born.

Adrian Vale.

Three-time Academy Award winner. America’s favorite impossible man. Critics called him magnetic. Fans called him perfect. Entertainment magazines loved to describe him as “dangerously gentle,” which was such a ridiculous phrase it could only have come from publicists.

He was watching me now, chin propped lightly on one hand, the hint of a smile playing at his mouth.

And the first thing I noticed was not his face.

It was his neck.

Beautiful cervical structure.

That sounds insane unless you’re me.

The sternocleidomastoid line was smooth and clean. His Adam’s apple was sharply defined. The angle at C2 was almost unnervingly elegant.

If someone had offered me his cervical spine as an anatomical teaching specimen, I might have blacked out from professional joy.

My fingers twitched.

That was not attraction.

That was forensic greed.

As if he recognized the invasive quality of my stare, Adrian stood and started walking toward me.

With each step, the air around him seemed to drop a few degrees.

He stopped about two feet in front of me and extended his hand with flawless politeness.

“Dr. Morgan,” he said, voice low and velvet-smooth, “your bedside manner is unforgettable. Care to take a look at me too?”

The cameras loved him instantly.

You could practically feel the production team salivating.

But I didn’t move.

Because the moment he got close enough, I caught it.

Underneath the expensive cedar-and-smoke cologne was another scent.

Faint.

Very faint.

But unmistakable.

Formalin.

And a trace of ether.

Most people would never have noticed it.

To me, it was as clear as if he had just stepped out of a morgue.

America’s dream man was not clean.

3

I lifted my eyes and met his.

The live comments were already melting down.

[OH MY GOD ADRIAN VALE IS SO GENTLE]
[Why is he being so sweet to her??]
[Claire won the lottery in a past life.]
[Girl TAKE HIS HAND before I do it for you.]

I took one slow breath and reached out.

His hand was long-fingered and cool.

Not cool like elegant.

Cool like a body that had been out of the sun too long.

His skin felt almost like polished stone. Beautiful, yes. But not warm. His body temperature had to be low, maybe around 97.2.

Unlike Jason, I didn’t press into the bone.

Instead, I let my fingertips trail lightly across the center of his palm, following the lines just long enough to make the camera operators lose their minds.

Then I stepped half a pace closer.

Too close.

Close enough that the air between us felt charged.

The cameras surged forward, hungry for romance, for chemistry, for whatever pink-filter fantasy they thought they were capturing.

I leaned toward his ear and said, in a voice low enough for only him to hear:

“Mr. Vale… why is the ring finger on your left hand missing a bone segment?”

For the first time, the perfect smile on his face cracked.

Only slightly.

But I saw it.

Whoever had done the prosthetic work had been exceptional. The artificial structure filled the finger almost perfectly. Even the skin texture was replicated well enough to fool most people.

But bone does not lie.

And under my hand, that finger told the truth.

It was hollow where it should not have been.

I tilted my head and whispered again.

“What happened? Trying to wash blood off your hands so thoroughly you got rid of the bone too?”

His eyes changed instantly.

All the softness drained out of them.

What replaced it was something colder than anger.

Stillness.

The kind that makes human instincts start screaming before your brain catches up.

He closed his hand around mine.

Hard.

So hard I felt the pressure shoot through the small bones of my fingers.

He bent toward me, the corner of his mouth curling into something that, from far away, probably looked flirtatious.

To anyone watching, it would have seemed intimate.

To me, it felt like a threat with perfect posture.

“Dr. Morgan,” he murmured, his voice still threaded with mock warmth, “sometimes knowing too much is how people end up sleeping forever.”

I looked straight into his eyes.

Then I smiled.

And mine was worse.

“Perfect,” I said softly. “I’ve actually been looking for a flawless skeletal specimen. And honestly? You’d look incredible mounted and cataloged.”

For one split second, I think even Adrian Vale wasn’t sure whether I was joking.

That was the fun part.

Because I wasn’t entirely sure either.