Capturing the Young Doctor's Heart: Mr. Big Shot Won't Let Me Go Chapter 9: Great Medical Sincerity

"I’m an adult." She said, steeling herself.

The man clearly didn’t believe her, looking at her deeply, "Show your ID to prove it."

It had barely been a few months since she last saw her head teacher, thinking they had long parted ways, unrelated to each other, yet she didn’t expect to be recognized by him and have him interfere in her affairs.

She stubbornly said, "I didn’t bring it."

"Then leave."

As she hesitated, the man had already seized her wrist bone, pulling her toward the elevator while talking to her as a guardian, his tone calm with a hint of deliberate slowness, even pointing to the slogans inside the elevator like "Minors are not allowed," telling her to look at them carefully.

Only after they exited did he release her.

"Where do you live? I’ll take you back."

She defiantly said, "No need, I don’t think you are a good person."

A gathering disrupted by him, leaving her particularly disappointed, her gift not even given...

The man stood by the door, not leaving, his tall figure exuding authority, inexplicably reminding her of the stern security uncle at her school’s entrance.

Except this "security guard" was dressed in a top-tier custom suit, exuding elegance, with a slight frown that sent a flood of oppressive aura.

She felt like a chick evicted from its nest.

Helpless, she had to turn and ride her electric bike back ho.

Later, she learned that shortly after she left, Zara and the others also dispersed, being escorted out by staff...

It was during that unintentional glance at the entertainnt venue that she gained a vague concept of sex.

With fingertips stained, Claire Prescott’s thoughts suddenly pulled away from distant mories.

She wiped the ink off with a tissue, returning her focus to transcribing, pausing slightly as she wrote.

The words "Keane Lowell" stood out on the paper, the delicate cursive smooth and refined, clearly written when she was distracted, yet each stroke carried a ticulous rigor.

Perhaps it’s because passion clouds reason.

Despite being cared for by him only half a day, she’s distractedly thinking of him.

Moreover, maybe he just sees her as a sister, without other intentions.

What is she fantasizing about?

...

Transcribing the book took a full half month.

Elder Sinclair didn’t check for missing words or sentences, relying entirely on her self-discipline, and she indeed transcribed it a hundred tis without failing.

Regarding his gift of precious herbs to others, she dared not ntion it again to avoid displeasing the old man.

She’s well aware of the current financial situation of the apothecary, as long as nothing major happens, it can sustain itself. Besides, the apothecary belongs to him, and he can manage it as he wishes.

On the day of liberation.

After breakfast, Claire Prescott lay on the rocking chair in the courtyard, took out her phone, and opened Keane Lowell’s WeChat.

His profile picture remained the default gray silhouette, his nickna a simple letter ’L’, with no posts at all, making it feel like she had added a user long inactive.

Each ti she opened the chat box, she didn’t know what to say.

This ti too.

After deliberating for a while, she typed a ssage: [When you have ti, I’ll treat you to dinner]

Once sent, the other end quickly replied, and at that mont, she suddenly felt like he ca back to life.

L: [In Valoria, I’ll find you when I return]

Valoria...

Her birthplace.

Also, the place she least wants to ntion.

Darkness flickered in Claire Prescott’s eyes as she replied with a single word: [Okay]

Later, she switched accounts.

Added were patients from her consultations, with over three hundred unread ssages after not logging in for half a month.

She felt dizzy looking at them.

She temporarily ignored them, posting a status: [Regular consultations resu today.]

Afterward, she prepared to clean up and head to Sinclair Apothecary for work.

...

Due to her absence for a while, a particularly large number of patients ca looking for her these days.

That day, while consulting, Tiger suddenly brought over dical records, reminding her: "Sister Claire, a patient needs you to arrange a house call."

Generally, those requiring house calls are bedridden patients needing her personal visit to their ho.

These patients are few, only a few cases a week, and usually aren’t urgent; if they were, they’d be sent to the Western dicine ergency departnt.

However, to minimize their suffering, she usually arranges the visit on the sa day, but clearly today wouldn’t allow for that, with too many patients to attend.

Claire Prescott responded, "Schedule it for tomorrow morning at seven."

"Okay, I’ll arrange it right away."

After Tiger left the consultation room, the patient aunt next to her looked at her with admiration, "Thank you, child."

Though not the first ti hearing such words, every ti she hears it, she feels comforted spiritually.

Since she beca capable of handling matters independently, each ti a patient healed under her care was a great encouragent, for she, as a seemingly insignificant Chinese dicine practitioner, really needed this encouragent.

Yet she always rembered her grandfather’s teachings, that despite being skilled in dicine, one should remain humble and not arrogant.

"Aunt, open your mouth so I can check."

After examining the tongue coating, Claire Prescott asked her a few follow-up questions, then wrote her prescription and provided instructions.

The gentle, ticulous mont was taken in by those waiting at the doorway.

Claire Prescott looked up, eting the man’s gaze, seeming as if disoriented by work, she checked the information on the computer.

It was indeed her stepbrother, older by four years, Finn Prescott.

Seeing him, the scene of her mother’s death flashed through her mind.

She closed her eyes, her expression darkening, choosing to ignore him.

In her disregard, Finn Prescott walked in.

The fitted suit accentuated his decisiveness, with deep brows and handso eyes, his elongated gaze rich with inscrutability.

Understanding clearly his sister’s reluctance to see him, he still ca, patiently queued for over two hours.

He knew well, despite the resentnt his sister held, she wouldn’t ignore a patient, so he calmly took a seat on the patient stool, getting straight to the point: "I’ve co for you to treat ."

Claire Prescott remained silent for quite a while.

Rembering the waiting patients outside and the "Great dical Sincerity" she recently transcribed:

Whenever a great physician treats an illness, they must first develop a great compassion and empathy, pledging to universally alleviate the suffering of all beings. When soone seeks aid for illness or disaster, one should not inquire about their status, wealth, age, appearance, whether friend or foe, civilized or barbarian, wise or foolish. Treat all equally, as if they were one’s own kin...

She relaxed her fists slightly, forcing herself to put aside personal grievances, and asked calmly, "What’s troubling you?"

The man replied, "Shoulders and neck."

Claire Prescott stood up, moved behind him, straightened his arm, lifting it and turning it to the side, asking him, "Does it hurt when you turn your head to the left?"

Her voice was just above, her whole body surrounding him, her back faintly touching hers, with an indistinct warm fragrance lingering, causing him to montarily be lost in thought.

Since childhood, she never willingly got close to him, discarding anything he touched. Now rare was an occasion she didn’t reject him outright.

He quickly refocused, responding to her, "A little."

Claire Prescott switched to his other arm, asking him the sa questions, finally stacking her left fist atop his head, tapping once, asking if it made him dizzy.

The entire process was full of patience for the patient.

In the workplace, those who sit long and view computers often display shoulder and neck issues.

But him, surrounded by luxury, lacked no one to massage and soothe him. Not to ntion his odd behavior of visiting her for treatnt today.

Claire Prescott sat down again, while writing the diagnosis, she told him, "Symptoms aren’t serious. Go to the second floor to get a massage, to open your ridians."

These words Finn Prescott carelessly absorbed, his gaze drifting to her elegant and calm profile, softly speaking, "I called you a few days ago, but you didn’t answer. You haven’t returned to Valoria in a long ti. Grandpa misses you, and told to bring you back."

Claire Prescott evaded the subject, indifferently handing the form over, "Pay at the counter first, then head to the second floor."

Clearly wanting to drive him away, her face showing complete disdain.