Chapter 299

Dr Wang

I shake her hand as the press takes pictures. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

The flash of cameras, the murmur of reporters, the sterile smile I’ve perfected over years of public appearances—all of it is second nature. But beneath the professional exterior, my mind races.

It was too good to be true to deny the joint collaboration for research of suppressants with Daphne Han’s company. She has access to the best facilities, the most advanced technology, and an unlimited budget. As a researcher, as a scientist, it was a deal I could not avoid.

She’s taller than I expected. Most female Alphas are... diminished, somehow. Lesser. But not her. She stands with the kind of casual authority that comes from absolute certainty in one’s own power. Her grip is firm, professional, and her eyes—

Her eyes never stop moving. Cataloging. Assessing. Missing nothing.

Dangerous, I think. This one is dangerous.

"The partnership will revolutionize Omega healthcare," I say, my voice carrying to the back of the room. "Madam Han’s commitment to accessibility aligns perfectly with my clinic’s mission."

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. "Dr. Wang’s reputation precedes him. I’m honored to work with someone so dedicated to Omega welfare."

The words are perfect. The tone is flawless. And yet—

She’s watching me the same way I’m watching her.

*

The press conference ends. Handshakes, more photos, the usual dance. Finally, we retreat to a private conference room, just the two of us and our respective assistants.

"Your clinic has an impressive track record," she says, settling into a chair with the ease of someone who owns every room she enters. "The Omega community trusts you. That’s invaluable."

"Trust is earned," I reply, taking the seat across from her. "I’ve spent years building it."

"Years I don’t have." She leans forward slightly.

"My company can provide the resources, the technology, the funding. You provide the credibility, the patient access, the clinical expertise. Together, we change the landscape."

It’s a good pitch. Sincere, direct, mutually beneficial. Everything a partnership should be.

But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s another layer. Something beneath the surface.

"I understand your shelter opening was quite successful," I say, shifting to more personal ground. "The Omega community speaks highly of your efforts."

"We with the ability must do what we can to help," she says.

The response is smooth. Rehearsed almost. But there’s something in her eyes—a flicker of genuine warmth when she speaks about the shelter. Interesting.

"The mayor must be proud as well," I probe. "Having such an accomplished sister reflects well on his administration."

She looks at me. Amused.

That’s wrong. That’s very wrong.

"I suppose," she says, her tone light, "though in different paths, my brother and I both wish to change the world for the better."

Different paths. A diplomatic way of saying they’re not close. The amusement tells me she’s not bothered by this. If anything, she seems to prefer it that way.

"Understood," I reply, keeping my expression neutral. "With many people taking these steps, change is possible."

We make more small talk. Research timelines. Funding allocations. Regulatory hurdles. All perfectly professional, perfectly pleasant.

But I can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong.

***

Elliot

I can’t help it.

I’ve spent the past couple of days going through every article, every sighting, every interview with Daphne Han. It’s hard to believe that a mere few years ago, she was just a playboy—drinking, partying, making headlines for all the wrong reasons. The tabloids called her the "Disgraced Heiress," the "Han Family Embarrassment."

Then she disappeared for some years.

And when she came back, she was... this. CEO. Philanthropist. The woman who makes Omegas forget how to breathe.

The more I learn about her, the deeper the interest grows. It’s not logical. It’s not smart. It’s not any of the things I should be feeling about an Alpha I barely know.

Which is why I’m here.

Catering this event at the exclusive golf course. It’s beneath my usual agency’s placements—I had to pull strings, call in favors, lie through my teeth to get this shift. But I heard the Hans would be present. All of them. Bernard, Olga, Damien, and—

Her.

I needed to see her once. Just once. To make sure I’m not imagining things.

To confirm that the electric moment in the cafe was real and not just my desperate Omega brain creating fantasies.

The golf course sprawls before me, impossibly green, dotted with elites in pastels and expensive sunglasses. I move through the crowd with my tray of champagne flutes, a ghost in a white uniform, invisible to the wealthy and powerful.

My eyes are fixed on her, though. They always find her, no matter where she is in the crowd.

She’s standing with a group of business types, nodding along to something a gray-haired man is saying.

She’s in white today—crisp slacks, a sleeveless top, a wide-brimmed hat that shades her face. She looks effortlessly elegant, like she was born to be photographed against manicured grass and blue sky.

Then—

A crash.

A waitress stumbles, her tray clattering to the ground. Wine splashes across the front of her white uniform, a dark, spreading stain. Her face goes pale, then red. She’s mortified, stammering apologies, her eyes already welling with tears.

The elites around her step back, expressions ranging from annoyance to disgust. No one helps. No one even moves.

Except her.

Daphne Han steps forward, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket and offers it with a gentle hand, saying something too quiet for me to hear. The waitress looks up at her like she’s a vision. Like she’s salvation.

She’s still such an angel.

I watch as she helps the waitress to her feet, guides her toward the clubhouse, gestures for a supervisor to handle the situation without blame. All in the space of two minutes. All with the kind of casual kindness that most Alphas couldn’t fake if their lives depended on it.

I follow.

The waitress disappears into a staff changing room, and I slip in after her under the pretense of helping. She’s grateful, distracted, babbling about how Daphne Han saved her, how she’d have been fired, how she’ll never forget this.

I help her find a spare uniform, comfort her with empty words, and in the chaos—

I take the handkerchief.

It’s wrong. I know it’s wrong. It’s pathetic and desperate and the kind of thing obsessed stalkers do in bad movies.

But I can’t stop myself.

It’s just a small square of white cloth, now stained with wine and damp with tears. I press it to my face as soon as the waitress leaves, inhaling deeply.

Wine. Expensive fabric softener. And beneath it, so faint I almost miss it—

A whisper of pheromones.

It’s her.

I tuck the cloth into my pocket, close to my heart, and lean against the wall, breathing hard.