"Dalton! Over here!" Tansy shouted, jumping to her feet and waving frantically.

Dalton Kelley's gaze found his sister, and then settled on the person beside her. A girl in a cheap, faded hoodie, slumped in a chair.

He frowned. This was 'The Surgeon'? She looked like a runaway teenager.

As Dalton started to walk toward them, his housekeeper, Mrs. Pemberton, made a catastrophic mistake. Only moments ago, she had quietly conceded her own shallowness and recognized that Miss Clarke's skill was genuine. But now,

She saw the frown on Dalton's face and misinterpreted it. She assumed he shared her old opinion—that this girl's appearance was an embarrassment, that she was unworthy of speaking directly to Mr. Kelley.

Trying to redeem herself in her employer's eyes, she stepped in front of Alyssa before Dalton could reach them.

"Miss Clarke," she said, her voice dripping with condescending professionalism. "Mr. Kelley is here. Regarding your compensation, please leave your bank account details. We will wire a one-million-dollar gratuity for your assistance. You may leave now."

Her words were a dismissal, an act of charity bestowed upon a beggar.

Tansy was horrified. "Mrs. Pemberton, what are you saying? She's the doctor my brother hired!"

"Miss Tansy, you are too naive," Mrs. Pemberton said confidently. "Perhaps she was lucky enough to have some field medicine skills, but that does not qualify her to treat a Kelley. Your brother will arrange for a team of proper experts for your continued care."

Alyssa had been silent. Now, she slowly rose to her feet. The last shred of patience in her eyes had vanished.

She had come here to test Dalton Kelley. His housekeeper had just provided the answer.

"I've changed my mind," Alyssa said, her voice like arctic air. "I'm no longer accepting the Kelley contract."

She turned to leave.

Enraged by this insolence, Mrs. Pemberton gave a subtle nod to two bodyguards. "Stop her! She might know more about Miss Tansy's condition. We need to question her!"

She thought Alyssa was bluffing, trying to drive up her price.

Two massive bodyguards, both well over six feet tall, moved to block Alyssa's path.

From a distance, Dalton saw what was happening. His face darkened. He opened his mouth to shout, but it was too late.

Alyssa didn't even seem to see the men.

The moment the first bodyguard's hand touched her shoulder, her own hand shot up. A flick of the wrist, a twist, a push.

A sickening crack echoed in the air, followed by a scream of pain. The bodyguard's wrist was bent at an unnatural angle, clearly dislocated.

The second guard, shocked, threw a punch. Alyssa sidestepped it effortlessly, driving her elbow into a precise point on his ribcage.

He let out a choked grunt and collapsed, curling into a ball on the ground, unable to breathe.

It was over in less than three seconds. A display of brutal, efficient violence that left everyone speechless.

Alyssa reached into her pocket, pulled out a tissue, and wiped her hands, which hadn't touched a thing.

She took a pen and a small notepad from her backpack and scribbled a few lines.

She slapped the note onto the chest of the stunned Mrs. Pemberton. "This is an emergency care regimen for the next three days. It will keep her stable. Tell your master his arrogance just cost him his only chance at a cure."

Without another word, she walked to the curb and hailed a taxi.

By the time Dalton and Tansy finally caught up, the car had already sped away.

Dalton looked at his groaning bodyguards, at the ashen-faced Mrs. Pemberton, and at the note in her hand, which was covered in complex molecular formulas he couldn't begin to comprehend. His face was a thundercloud of fury and regret.

Three days later, Dalton Kelley was at a dead end. He had deployed all the resources of Kelley Capital, and he couldn't find a single trace of "Alyssa Clarke." It was as if she had never existed.

He'd shown the note she'd left to a dozen of the world's top geneticists. They all came back with the same conclusion: the formulas on the page were a work of genius, a theoretical framework for a cure that was years ahead of current science.

Dalton's regret was a physical weight in his chest. He grew colder, more withdrawn, his infamous temper shortening by the hour.

Meanwhile, in her lab, Alyssa was analyzing the genetic data she had surreptitiously collected from her brief contact with Tansy, using it to refine the Sentinel-7 formula.

A call came in from Helena. A reminder about an important event that evening.

The host was Victor Lowell, a major defense contractor and one of Alyssa's key business partners. He had long been eager to meet the mysterious "Dr. Clarke" in person. Alyssa agreed to attend; one of Lowell's projects would be useful for her research.

That evening, Alyssa appeared at a charity gala held at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

She wore no gown. Instead, she was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, her long hair pulled back in a high, severe ponytail. Her aura was sharp and cold. She was unrecognizable from the girl in the hoodie.

Her arrival turned heads.

Victor Lowell himself met her at the entrance, his attitude one of deep respect. "Dr. Clarke, it is an honor to have you here."

"Mr. Lowell," Alyssa said, shaking his hand.

Their interaction was noted by many. Whispers spread through the room as people wondered who this young woman was, to be treated with such deference by a titan of the defense industry.

Across the hall, Dalton Kelley stood with a drink in his hand, his mind a million miles away. He was here out of obligation, his mood foul.

His eyes swept absently across the room, and then they froze.

He saw her. The woman who had haunted his thoughts for three days.

The clothes, the hair, the entire presence was different, but he would never forget that face, or those cold, intelligent eyes.

She was standing with Victor Lowell, looking completely at ease.

Dalton's heart gave a hard thump against his ribs. He started walking toward her, moving with a purpose that made his business partners fall silent.

Alyssa felt his gaze on her, a tangible heat. She turned her head slightly and saw him approaching.

A flicker of understanding crossed her face, but she gave no other sign of recognition, turning back to her conversation with Lowell.

Dalton stopped in front of her, his tall frame casting a shadow over her.

Victor Lowell looked surprised. "Kelley? What brings you over here?"

Dalton's eyes were locked on Alyssa. He spoke, his voice tight with a dozen suppressed emotions. "Miss Clarke. Can we talk?"

The air around them grew still. Everyone was watching.

Alyssa picked up a glass of champagne from a passing tray. She swirled the liquid, watching the bubbles rise. She said nothing.

Her silence was a louder rejection than any word could have been. It was a feeling Dalton Kelley, a man who moved markets with a single phone call, had never experienced before.

Just as the tension became unbearable, the lights in the ballroom dimmed. A spotlight hit the stage. The emcee announced the arrival of a guest of honor.

Flanked by his family, Cassius Summers walked slowly into the room. Dalton barely noticed. He was too focused on the woman in front of him, completely unaware that a storm of violence was about to break, aimed squarely at the old man who had just taken the stage.