A thick, antiseptic aroma mixed with the scent of white roses teases Alexander Rington’s sense of smell. Every breath feels like it’s burning, signaling remnants of toxic smoke inhalation trauma that haven’t fully healed.
Alexander opens his eyes. His sharp eyes immediately scan the surroundings with heightened alertness.
He lies on a grand four-poster bed with carved teak wood in a Neoclassical style. The ceiling is decorated with Renaissance landscape frescoes, illuminated by the warm glow of a crystal chandelier. Morning sunlight filters through heavy velvet curtains, casting golden streaks across the Carrara marble floor.
He tries to move, but stabbing pain in his right shoulder and chest forces him to remain still. An IV infusion and wireless vital sign monitor are neatly attached to his wrist.
"I advise you not to move much, Monsieur Rington," a calm, clear, authoritative female voice says from the corner of the room.
He slowly turns his head. Near the tall window facing a formal French-style garden stands a middle-aged woman dressed in a tailored gray-blue gown. Her silver hair is neatly coiffed, radiating the stern aura of old European nobility.
"Where am I?" Alexander’s voice sounds hoarse, as if his throat is scratched by thorny bushes.
"You are at Château de La Croix, on the outskirts of Versailles, France," she replies softly, approaching the bed with an elegant movement, holding a porcelain cup filled with warm herbal liquid. "Our medical team has worked for fourteen hours to remove synthetic toxins from your respiratory system and reconstruct the damaged muscle tissue in your shoulder caused by gunfire."
His heart races. Visions of Olivia, Ethan, and Stella’s faces, slumped in Jakarta’s sky house, flash through his mind.
"Olivia, my children," Alexander struggles to sit up, ignoring the pain in his chest. "Where is my family?!"
"Calm yourself, Monsieur," she places the porcelain cup on the bedside table with graceful, silent movements. "Madame Olivia Carter and your children are safe under the protection of Vanguard’s special tactical fleet at a hidden medical facility in Geneva. Your colleague, Monsieur Daniel, facilitated their transfer after the Jakarta crisis was resolved."
Alexander narrows his eyes, fixing a piercing stare at the woman before him. "Who ordered my transfer to France? Who is that woman in the golden mask?"
The middle-aged woman offers a faint, enigmatic smile and bows politely with aristocratic decorum.
"I am Madame Helene, the estate’s chief steward," she says calmly. "Regarding the person who saved your life from the underground fire in Jakarta, she is waiting for you in the main hall."
After removing the medical equipment and dressing in a black suit designed by a Parisian couturier prepared in his private bathroom, Alexander steps out. Though his steps are still slightly limping and his stamina isn’t fully recovered, his tall posture exudes a commanding presence.
Alexander recognizes the family crest — an eagle clutching a crossed sword on a blue shield. The same emblem is carved on the porcelain mask of the woman who helped him in the compressor room.
They stop in front of a grand bronze-carved double door. Helene gently pushes it open, allowing Alexander to step alone into the conservatory’s massive glass-walled hall.
A beautiful view of the expansive rose garden unfolds behind the glass. In the center of the room, beside a sleek Steinway & Sons grand piano, stands a young woman with her back to the door.
She wears a flowing cream silk gown. Her golden hair cascades down her back, radiating a pure aura that feels all too familiar in Alexander’s memory.
His footsteps halt abruptly on the marble floor. His silver eyes widen; his chest pounds with overwhelming emotion that renders his mind helpless.
Her elegant face, perfect nose, and clear sapphire-blue eyes gazing at Alexander with deep longing mixed with long-held sorrow — it’s Eleanora De La Croix, Alexander’s first fiancée, reported dead in a tragic lab explosion in Monaco seven years ago! Her funeral triggered Alexander’s despair, leading him to meet Olivia later.
Eleanora offers a thin, beautiful smile, hiding a deep mystery. She steps toward Alexander with unmatched grace.
"Long time no see, my Alexander," her voice flows softly, like a night symphony that soothes the soul. "Seven years I’ve waited for this moment — for us to stand face to face again, without spies from the underworld watching."
Alexander freezes as Eleanora’s delicate fingers touch his cheek, feeling the warmth of a woman he once thought had turned to ashes.
"How is this possible?" Alexander’s grip on her wrist tightens as he looks into her eyes with intense focus. "I was the one who identified your DNA sample in Monaco! Your death drove me to destroy that secret laboratory network!"
"The DNA you tested in Monaco belongs to the initial clone specimen made by Julian," Eleanora calmly cuts in, her voice still gentle but cold with truth. "My family faked my death to protect me from a bounty hunter’s hunt. For the past seven years, I’ve lived in the shadows, controlling the La Croix clan network to dismantle the illegal empire built by Julian and Christian Wijaya behind the scenes."
Alexander takes a deep breath, processing the insane new information hitting his mind. "So, the woman in the golden mask in Jakarta is you?"
"I won’t let the man I love die at the hands of monsters like Julian," Eleanora whispers, staring straight into Alexander’s silver eyes.
Silence falls over the conservatory for a moment before Alexander slowly steps back, releasing her wrist.
"I’m sorry for what happened to you in the past, Eleanora," he says firmly and honestly. "But my heart and life now belong entirely to Olivia Carter. She’s my wife, and she’s the mother of my children."
Eleanora shows no surprise or anger. Instead, she lets out a soft, melodious laugh that echoes gently against the glass walls.
"I know, Alexander. I know how much you love Olivia and those twins," she says, walking toward the grand piano and touching its white keys. "I’m not asking you to forget them. But there’s one thing you need to know about the woman you call your wife."
Alexander’s jaw tightens. "Don’t you dare try to slander or deceive Olivia."
Eleanora picks up a black leather folder from the piano and gently tosses it onto the glass table between them.
"Open that, Alexander," she says, her eyes filled with a mixture of pity and terrible truth. "Olivia Carter never met you by chance seven years ago in London."
Alexander narrows his eyes, hesitating as he opens the leather folder with a growing sense of unease.
Inside, he finds secret archived documents stamped with the La Croix dynasty seal from 2018. The first page features a photo of a young Olivia Carter in a high-level medical lab uniform!
Beneath her photo, her official title reads: Head of the Embryo Genetic Engineering Division, Central Laboratory.
Alexander’s eyes widen as he reads the lines of the confidential documents, revealing her true background.
"Olivia isn’t just an innocent victim," Eleanora’s voice whispers the bitter truth that tears apart Alexander’s trust to its core. "She’s the lead scientist behind the creation of Julian’s synthetic toxin structure, and she’s the one who developed Ethan and Stella’s initial specimens in the lab before fleeing from me!"
Before Alexander can process the devastating facts, the conservatory door bursts open violently.
Daniel rushes in, his tactical gear stained with mud and blood. His face is pale as he looks at Alexander.
"Alex! We have to go now!" Daniel screams urgently, holding up a communication tablet flashing a distress signal.
"Daniel? What’s wrong?!" Alexander asks, clutching the leather folder with trembling hands.
"An unknown tactical helicopter just attacked the Geneva medical facility!" Daniel shouts. "Olivia took all of Ethan and Stella’s blood samples, slaughtered six Vanguard guards, and fled using Victoria Ashford’s private jet!"
Daniel turns his tablet toward Alexander, revealing security camera footage from Geneva.
In the footage, Olivia Carter stands on the helipad, blood-spattered, holding a silenced pistol, offering a cold, unfamiliar smile — a smile identical to Victoria Ashford’s.
She looks directly into the surveillance camera, whispering the final words before leaping into the private jet:
"Thanks for your investment over the past seven years, Alexander Rington."