Kellan sat on the edge of his spacious, luxurious bed, his gaze fixed on the medical report. His face was expressionless. This mansion was his private retreat.

His doctor, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses, said, “Mr. Lloyd, your wounds were treated with great care. There was no further damage, so your recovery is progressing smoothly.”

Kellan barely listened. The doctor's words were distant echoes, each one hammering at the man kneeling at his bedside: Sherman Harrison, Kellan's longtime assistant. Sherman knelt in profound sorrow. He knew whose fault it was.

When the doctor left, Sherman, his face full of shame, said, "I screwed up. I should have detected the danger earlier."

"That's enough," Kellan cut him off sharply, but his tone remained controlled. The tension in the room was suffocating; Kellan's presence made it hard for anyone to breathe.

"The guy responsible has been caught," Sherman explained, attempting to redirect the conversation. He'd been with Kellan for years and knew his aversion to dwelling on the past; revenge was his focus. "He's one of Hoyt's, but he won't confess."

"Throw him into international waters. You know what to do."

"I'll take care of it," Sherman replied.

Kellan idly traced the pages of a book. "My dear stepbrother's skills are improving, but I hear his company's finances aren't looking good. An audit could dry up his cash flow. Bankruptcy isn't far off."

"I understand," Sherman replied, taking the hint.

Sunlight streamed through the window, warming the room, a warmth Kellan seemed to ignore as he stared out, lost in thought. Then, almost absentmindedly, he asked, "What have you found out about Allison Clarke's time on the island?"

Sherman visibly stiffened, sweat beading on his forehead. "Nothing concrete. Everything seems clean. People saw her, but there's no trace of her activities. Her parents' records are blank."

Kellan wasn't surprised. The woman was a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Still kneeling, Sherman cautiously asked, "Should we take care of her discreetly? After all, she saw you there"

Kellan set the book aside and closed his eyes briefly. "No need."

Sherman hesitated, confused. Kellan usually left no loose ends. But Kellan had his reasons. Without further prompting, Sherman left.

In truth, Kellan knew Allison was not to be trifled with. She was cunning, calculating, perhaps even more dangerous than he was. She wasn't an ally, but not an immediate enemy either. More than anything, he wondered if she'd be intrigued by collaborating.

"Allison," her name slipped from his lips. "You're quite the enigma."

He remembered her coldly squeezing his jaw, forcing poison down his throat. Her image blurred with the shadowy figure from that night—both mysterious, both dangerous—yet he found himself drawn to her, against his better judgment. He raised a hand to his chest, where the memory of her applying salve lingered. He could still feel her fingers, and he hadn't forgotten the sting of her blade.

Meanwhile, the phone on the bedside table buzzed incessantly. Kellan's lips curved into a slight smile. Could Allison have finally decided to side with him? Maybe she needed his knowledge.

"Have you decided yet?" he asked calmly.

On the other end, the director froze, taken aback by Kellan's unusually relaxed tone. He glanced at the calendar. It was a normal workday. Why was Mr. Lloyd in such a good mood? "Uh sir? It's Adam. Adam Westwood."

Kellan blinked, speechless. The manager's tentative tone brought him back to reality. He glanced at the phone; it wasn't Allison. It was Adam Westwood, CEO of Carisma.

"What's wrong?" Kellan's voice turned cold and controlled, the warmth gone.

"S-Sir, everything is ready as you requested," Adam stammered, nervously wiping sweat from his forehead. Kellan's unpredictable moods always unsettled him. He wondered if he'd imagined the earlier kindness. "We've organized the journalists and media for the Perfumery Competition, and we've found investors."

Charisma had invested heavily, making the contest a major spectacle. Adam had pulled strings, gathered contacts, and sent out press releases to put Charisma front and center.

"Our market value has been rising steadily this month, sir," Adam added, scanning his financial statements. Kellan's participation had catapulted the company to stardom overnight. But he remained an enigma, never appearing publicly. His absence only fueled the media's obsession.

"Good. Make sure everything stays on track," Kellan replied, asking a few more detailed questions before hanging up.

In fact, though the world knew him for his ceramics, his true talent was perfumery. He'd received worldwide praise, beating countless rivals. But only one competitor had ever defeated him: Scarlet Snake. This unassuming figure, supposedly in his sixties, had effortlessly won an international competition. Since then, Kellan had been investigating, desperate to learn more, but strict confidentiality kept Scarlet Snake's identity hidden. Yet, Kellan knew one thing: given his rival's age, Scarlet Snake wouldn't be a contender in this upcoming contest or would he?