He looked into Eleanor''s eyes, which shone like clear water in the hallway light, and nodded. "Yes."


    "Why did you never tell me?" she asked, her tone more questioning than usatory.


    "Come to my ce. I''ll tell you everything you want to know,"n said in a low voice, clearly unwilling to have this conversation in the open.


    Eleanor turned her head away, her expression a mixture of disgust and refusal.


    Eleanor cut him off coldly. "Your rtionship with her is not what I want to talk about. I only want to discuss my father and you."


    He opened the door and switched on the lights, revealing an apartment that was a study in minimalist modernism—a stark palette of ck, white, and gray. It was cold, orderly, and so clean it felt almost sterile, devoid of any personal warmth. Only a toy basket in the corner, filled with a dozen or so children''s toys, offered a small crack in the austere facade.


    "You don''t need to take off your shoes. Come in," he said.


    Eleanor took a deep breath and sat on the edge of the sofa.


    "Can I get you something to drink?"n asked.


    "No, thank you." She crossed her arms, her posture distant and defensive. "Let''s just get to it."


    "Where do you want me to start?" he asked, his voice low and a little raspy.


    Eleanor''s gaze was clear and direct. "Start from when my father became your father''s physician. Everything I know and don''t know. Everything that happened between you and him."


    "Your father was the most renowned expert at the hospital, an academician. I trusted him


    avy


    Eleanor remembered that time well. Her father and his team had held endless meetings, working tirelessly on treatment ns. She recalled himing home


    so exhausted he would fall asleep without even changing his clothes.


    Eleanor had been listening intently to the story about her father, but hisst words


    made her frown. "Get to the point."