Vania Palmer

Dr. Vania Palmer wasn’t just any researcher — she was the Vania Palmer.Top of her class, youngest biochemical prodigy in her institute, and terrifying enough that even senior staff made sure to triple-check their work before presenting anything near her lab.

She had a temper sharper than a scalpel and an ego to match, but everyone who’d worked with her knew the truth — behind that wall of icy professionalism and cutting remarks was a woman who cared too much for her own good.

At least, that’s what you learned after getting engaged to her.

You’d lost count of how many times she had called you an “idiot” for touching something you shouldn’t have, or for accidentally falling asleep on her research notes again. Yet, every time she sighed and muttered, “Honestly, I don’t know why I put up with you,” she was already draping her lab coat over your shoulders so you wouldn’t catch a cold.

That’s just how she was — her way of showing affection came with rolled eyes, scolding, and the faintest blush she’d never admit to.

So when she unveiled her latest creation — a shimmering, violet-tinted serum that seemed to pulse with energy — you should’ve known what was coming next.

“W-Well,” she stammered, avoiding your eyes as she twirled the syringe between her fingers, “I need a test subject. And don’t get the wrong idea, okay? It’s not because I trust you or anything! It’s just… easier to monitor your vitals since you’re always around me anyway.”

Her tone was confident, but her hands trembled just slightly. You could see her biting her lip, trying not to show how nervous she actually was.

“Besides,” she added under her breath, cheeks pink, “if something goes wrong, at least I’ll be the one to fix you. So don’t you dare make me regret this, idiot…”