Apocalypse Rebirth: Making Billions With My Fortune-Telling Skill

Xavier’s jaw tightened subtly at Oliver’s sudden appearance, his composure fracturing just enough for a dark, protective shadow to cross his eyes.

He leaned back in his chair, taking a slow sip of his wine as his gaze locked onto the doctor. The sheer interruption was irritating enough, but Xavier hadn’t missed the way Oliver had frozen on the floor, his eyes tracking up April’s legs with an uncharacteristic, lingering intensity.

”A simple ’hi’ usually doesn’t involve abandoning your host table mid-conversation, Dr. Baxter,” Xavier noted smoothly, his raspy voice laced with a cool, polite edge that barely hid his possessiveness.

Oliver didn’t even flinch at Xavier’s cold reception. His clinical mind was still wildly attempting to index his own elevated pulse and the heat lingering behind his collar.

He adjusted his glasses with a single finger, forcing his posture back into its usual rigid, analytical stance—though his gaze involuntarily flicked back down to April’s bare feet resting beside her discarded stilettos before snapping back to her face.

”My presence at that table was a statistical waste of time,” Oliver replied flatly, handing the clean fork to the waiter who had rushed over to replace it. ”I observed you were dining out. Given your current... monthly cycle, I assumed you would be resting. Increased physical exertion paired with restrictive footwear seemed ill-advised.”

Xavier nearly choked on his wine. His face flushed a brilliant crimson at Oliver’s utterly shameless blurt regarding April’s period right in the middle of a high-end restaurant.

”Oliver,” Xavier warned under his breath, his dark eyes narrowing into sharp slits as his knuckles whitened slightly around his glass.

April, however, simply let out a light, airy chuckle, completely unbothered. ”I’m managing just fine, Dr. Oliver. Though if you’re so concerned about my well-being, you’re welcome to take a seat—if you think your clients won’t come dragging you back.”

Oliver glanced back over his shoulder toward the main dining hall. The group of businessmen was finally looking around in confusion, searching for their vanished surgeon.

”They can wait,” Oliver said without a second thought, pulling out the empty chair at the head of the small table before Xavier could even formulate an objection.

Sitting down, Oliver crossed his legs, his eyes fixing onto April with a strange, intense focus that hovered right on the edge between scientific fascination and something far more dangerous. ”I find the data at this table significantly more compelling anyway.”

Xavier set his wine glass down on the tablecloth with a slow, deliberate clink, his chest expanding under his tailored suit.

”I don’t recall issuing an invitation for a third guest, Dr. Baxter,” Xavier said, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that practically vibrated with warning.

”You didn’t but she did,” Oliver replied seamlessly, adjusting the cuffs of his white coat. He leaned back, resting his hands on the table. ”Besides, as her medical consultant, monitoring her status during a period of stress takes precedence over your... social outing.”

April leaned her chin on her palm, her eyes sparkling with unsuppressed amusement as she watched the sheer, stubborn audacity of the man.

”Monitoring my status?” April repeated, tilting her head. ”Is that what you call staring at my legs until you nearly froze on the floor?”

Oliver’s hand twitched slightly against the tablecloth, a faint, telltale pink dusting the top of his cheekbones. He cleared his throat, sitting up just a fraction straighter.

”That was a temporary misfire in my sympathetic nervous system caused by sudden optical re-adjustment to low ambient lighting,” Oliver stated flatly, his voice carrying the supreme confidence of a man lying to himself with pure jargon. ”It had nothing to do with... lower extremity aesthetics.”

”Right. Autonomic misfire,” April murmured, a dangerous, playful smirk curving her lips.

She subtly shifted her posture beneath the table, extending one smooth, stocking-clad leg just enough to lightly brush the tip of her toes against the leg of Oliver’s trousers.

Oliver froze instantly.

His jaw locked. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes widened ever so slightly, his pupils dilating as a violent, traitorous surge of heat shot straight up his neck.

His breath caught in his throat, his brain desperately trying—and failing—to run a diagnostic on why a single, feather-light touch was making his pulse hammer against his ribs like a frantic war drum.

Across the table, Xavier’s eyes flicked between Oliver’s suddenly rigid posture and April’s serene, innocent expression. He didn’t know exactly what she was doing under the table, but he knew her well enough to know she was actively driving the poor doctor straight out of his mind.

”Dr. Baxter,” Xavier interjected, his voice dripping with cool, mocking satisfaction as he raised his wine glass. ”You look completely stiff. Are you sure you shouldn’t return to your clients before your ’autonomic misfire’ requires an ambulance?”

Oliver swallowed hard, his throat working as he forced his eyes to stay glued to April’s face, completely refusing to back down despite his heart threatening to burst out of his chest.

”I am operating within entirely acceptable parameters,” Oliver managed to state, his voice tighter than usual. ”And I am staying right here.”

April maintained her tranquil, chin-in-hand posture, her expression the picture of serene innocence while her stocking-clad toes under the table deliberately dragged slowly up the coarse fabric of Oliver’s trouser leg.

To her, Oliver had always seemed less like a man and more like a high-functioning human computer. His entire existence revolved around clinical data, spatial distortion theories, and treating human bodies like mechanical engines to be repaired.

He had made it clear that trust was not something he could give because he didn’t exactly believe in it, so she had given up on raising his trust value for the time being.

She had also half-wondered if he even possessed blood in his veins, or if it was just pure, cold logic circulating through his heart.

But seeing him freeze earlier—watching that robotic facade crack for a split second just because of semi-transparent black stockings—had unlocked a new avenue of entertainment. She wasn’t trying to seduce him obviously; she was simply conducting her own little experiment to see just how human the ’Miracle Surgeon’ could be when pushed.

Her toes pressed a little firmer against his calf, tracing a slow, deliberate line upward toward his knee.

No one taught her how to do this. She had simply... looked up the internet a bit. Only a bit since she did not want to spoil the surprise that came with learning the ropes through actual intimacy.