Chapter 1: Super Hero on a Mission

Alice’s POV

The Santa Monica Hustle

The winter breeze off the Pacific carried a sharp chill as it cut through the Santa Monica streets, making the palm trees lining the sidewalk rustle like dry paper.

“Mommy, my tummy is singing a song.”

Three-year-old Camilla looked up at me, her deep-set, soulful eyes hinting at a heritage I couldn’t quite name. Her cheeks were flushed red, and a tiny streak of silver ran from her nose, but she still managed a brave, shaky smile.

I followed her gaze to a nearby street cart, where rows of hot dogs were glistening and rotating slowly on the rollers. Camilla swallowed hard, her small hand tightening its grip on my faded, oversized cardigan—the kind of knit that had seen better days but was too soft to throw away.

“When is Daddy coming to take us to dinner?” she asked, her voice small. “Is he busy saving the world like Spider-Man? Is that why he’s late?”

A sharp, physical ache bloomed in my chest.

Kneeling on the icy road, I tucked her freezing hands into my own. My throat was a barren, fire-swept plain, so tight that I couldn't squeeze out a word. How was I to tell her the truth? I had no name for the man. I didn't even have a face.

To Camilla, he was a world-saving hero from a dream. To me, he was only a blurred phantom from a reckless accident almost four years ago.

“Soon, baby. Daddy is... he’s just around the corner, waiting for the right time.” I pressed my lips to her cool forehead, blinking back the sting in my eyes.

Camilla wasn’t just my daughter; she was my entire world. And two weeks ago, a pathology report from Cedars-Sinai had shattered that world into a million pieces: Congenital Aplastic Anemia.

The specialist hadn’t minced words: “Alice, you’re a doctor. You know the score. Conservative treatment is just buying time. She needs a bone marrow transplant. Ideally, from the biological father. That’s her best shot.”

For Camilla, I would tear this city apart to find him.

I took a shaky breath and pulled her into my arms. My phone buzzed in my pocket — a high-priority, encrypted ping from the clinic.

[Privat-Doc Secure Alert]Dr. Alice: Confirmed for 8:00 AM tomorrow. Patient Status: VVIP (Concierge Service) Chief Complaint: ED (Suspected Psychogenic). Note: Extremely high-profile. No recordings. Strict NDA in effect.

I stared at the screen, my panic hardening into a cold, professional resolve.

I was the Chief of Urology at a private practice on the edge of Beverly Hills — the kind of place where the waiting room smelled like Le Labo and the patients owned the skyline. Every ounce of my expertise was now a tool for a single mission: to milk these elites for the exorbitant medical bills insurance wouldn't touch, and to use their connections to find a ghost.

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David’s POV:

“Get out! Now!”

The roar echoed through the vaulted ceilings, followed by the sound of a terrified model stumbling off the Italian silk sheets.

David sat on the edge of the massive bed, his custom-tailored shirt half-unbuttoned, chest heaving. His eyes were dark, predatory, and filled with a simmering rage that bordered on panic. He looked less like a billionaire and more like a wounded animal backed into a corner.

“Mr. Newcombe… I just… I thought I could—” the woman stammered, clutching her slip to her chest as she trembled.

“I’m not going to say it again. Charley, get her out of here,” David snapped. He grabbed a crystal tumbler of Macallan from the nightstand and hurled it into the thick shag rug. It didn't shatter, but the heavy thud was enough to make the girl bolt.

Charley, his long-time fixer and butler, appeared in the doorway like a shadow, gesturing for the security team to escort her out. Silence fell over the room, heavy and suffocating.

David rubbed his temples, a headache throbbing behind his eyes. Ever since that night nearly four years ago, his body had been stuck in a glitch he couldn't fix.

The blackout. The hotel. The woman who had climbed onto him in the dark like a little wildcat, leaving crescent-moon scars on his shoulders that had taken weeks to fade. She was his only "unlock code."

Since her, every touch felt like thorns; every perfume made his skin crawl. He was David Newcombe, the man who ran the West Coast, a titan of industry — and a man who was becoming a whispered joke in the elite circles of LA because he couldn't perform.

“Sir?” Charley stepped into the room, his voice a calm anchor against David’s low-frequency rage. He held out a black-and-gold card. “The Matriarch has weighed in. She says if you aren't in that specialist’s office tomorrow morning, she’s freezing your voting rights at the Foundation.”

David scoffed, ready to tear the card in half, but a flash of a memory stopped him — eyes that had burned bright in the pitch-black of a San Francisco hotel room. He was tired of living on scraps of a four-year-old touch.

“Alice?” David murmured, testing the name of the specialist. It was plain. Common. The kind of name you’d hear called out at a Starbucks. His eyes turned ice-cold. “Tell her if she can’t fix this, she’s done. I’ll see to it that she’s black-listed from every hospital in the country. She won’t so much as hold a tongue depressor in the state of California, ever again.”