<b>Chapter </b><b>533 </b>


    Owen stood <i>by </i>the living room’s floor–to–ceiling windows, wrapped in a sleek ck trench coat that entuated his tall, lean figure. He was on the phone, his usually stern face a mask of seriousness. As Mirabe and Johnny entered the room, Owen nced over his shoulder at them briefly before turning back to continue his conversation.


    Johnny gestured towards the plush sofa. “Please take a seat, Ms. Mirabe,” he said softly. “Mr. Owen will be with us shortly.”


    Mirabe nodded in acknowledgment and perched herself on the edge of the couch. The vi’s decor was a study in monochrome minimalism, its understated elegance betraying the taste of a discerning designer. Johnny headed to the fridge, fetched a bottle of spring water for Mirabe, and settled himself on a nearby armchair.


    He could tell that Mirabe wasn’t much of a talker, and frankly, what could he possibly have inmon with a high schooler? So he sat in silence, not attempting to make idle chat.


    Before long, Owen finished his call and walked over to them, the severity on his face reced with a touch of cordiality. “My apologies for the wait.”


    “No problem at all,” Mirabe said, shaking her head. She studied him for a moment. He still looked gaunt<b>, </b>almost skeletal, but there was a newfound vitality in his eyes. “You seem to be on the mend.”


    A slight smile curved Owen’s lips. “Thanks to the prescription you wrote,” he said graciously.


    Mirabe acknowledged his thanks with a small nod, her demeanor radiating an innate confidence. Her medical expertise was renowned within her n, and her talent was considered unparalleled.


    “Let’s check your pulse,” she suggested, motioning towards the chair beside her.


    Owen took a seat next to her and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a wrist where veins stood out starkly against his pale skin. As he reached out, his fingertips trembled ever so slightly. He nced at Mirabe, but her expression remained unfazed as if the sight of his stark veins didn’t unnerve her.


    Mirabe ced her fingers on Owen’s wrist<b>, </b>her touch light and precise. After a moment, she withdrew her hand.


    “How does it look, Ms. Mirabe?” Johnny asked, the concern in his voice almost overshadowing Owen’s own.


    Mirabe’s delicate brows furrowed slightly before rxing again. “The recovery is decent,<i>” </i>she said. “But you didn’t follow the dosage on my prescription, did you?”


    “Actually, we’ve been…” Johnny started, but his voice trailed off under Mirabe’s prating gaze.


    After a brief pause, he came clean. “Dane modified your prescription and turned it into pills.”


    “No wonder,” Mirabe thought, her lips pursing slightly.


    Johnny, sensing her displeasure, hurriedly asked, “Is there an issue with Mr. Owen’s treatment, Ms. Mirabe?”


    Mirabe tilted her head, staring at Johnny with a directness that seemed to cut through all pretense. “Do you believe that only a potion crafted by an apothecary can be considered medicine, that only such concoctions can heal?”


    Her words were simple, yet they made Johnny feel as if he was under a spotlight. “I…” he stammered.


    “<b>I </b>believe <b>you </b>should not have called me here today,” Mirabe said calmly. “You should have sought out Dane instead.”


    After all, if the medicine didn’t honor the doctor’s intent, what was the point of the cure?