The opulent hotel lobby, with a ten-meter high ceiling and a massive crystal chandelier, casts a dreamy glow.
People come and go through the revolving door, and outside, taxis wait at the entrance, ready to leave without delay.
Shea Thorne was just about to pick up her cello and place it in the taxi's backseat when a hand moved quicker than hers, grasping the handle of the case, while the other hand shut the taxi door.
"Stay a while longer, I'll keep Jonah Bell here."
Milo Sinclair was panting, his neatly combed hair a bit disheveled, sweat beading on his forehead, his coat unbuttoned, and his loosened tie slightly askew.
"I've kept Jonah at my hospital; stay and listen to me finish what I have to say." It was the first time in his life he made concessions for a woman. Even back then, when someone nearly took his life, he never compromised even a fraction in medicine.
With the last of his pride and dignity in this world, he asked her to stay.
