Edge of the snowy cliff.

"Elizabeth! God, you're insane!"

Ivan Vasiliev rushed over with his team, swiftly removing Elizabeth Parker's headphones and unzipping her ski suit to help her breathe. He then signaled for the others to get her onto the stretcher.

Snow and wind whipped around so violently it was impossible to see—the footprints they'd just made were already buried.

Elizabeth forced her eyes open, catching Ivan's helpless expression. The corners of her mouth twitched into a tired but defiant grin. Her voice came out hoarse: "Six-thousand meters above sea level. You bailed. Your loss."

"Yeah, yeah, save the speech," Ivan shot back, annoyed. "You almost got yourself killed! I like extreme sports, but I'm not suicidal."

Her gaze sparkled, unbothered. She closed her eyes, looking strangely content.

"Boss," someone came over, holding out a phone, "Call from Country H. For Miss Parker."

"For me?" Elizabeth exchanged a quick glance with Ivan and nodded. "Put it on speaker."

On the other end came a calm, warm male voice, tinged with a hint of exasperation—and something softer, almost affectionate: "Why haven't you been picking up?"

Her expression instantly softened. The sharp edge in her features faded like a tired bird finding its way home. Her voice turned gentle. "Got caught in a storm halfway down. Phone and gear… gone."

There was a pause. Then the man replied in a measured but firm tone: "New Year's in two days. Your flight's booked. Come home."

"I…" Elizabeth started to object.

"Grandpa's in the hospital." His voice cut in too clearly to ignore.

Her body went rigid on the stretcher.

Michael Parker stood just outside the intensive care unit, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. "He didn't want anyone to worry. But I figured… you should know."

Blank. Her mind went blank. That lightheaded feel of altitude sickness hit all over again.

It took her a few seconds to find her words. "...Is it serious?"

"He's stable, for now," Michael paused briefly, "but he wants to see you."Grandpa... A stab of guilt hit Elizabeth Parker. It had been nearly four years. The old general who'd raised her and her brother was already eighty. She'd been all over the world these last couple of years, chasing thrills while Grandpa indulged her—and somehow, she'd forgotten that time never waits.

"When's the next flight out?" she asked urgently.

"Noon tomorrow," Ivan Vasiliev chimed in, shaking his phone with a look of surprise. "You're in luck, Elizabeth. I've got a friend, Mr. Bradford. His private jet's heading to Capital tonight, and he's cool with giving you a ride."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you know rich guys like that?"

Ivan just grinned mysteriously. "Family friends. He's into extreme sports too," he said, tossing a glance at the upscale wooden cabin across from them, pristine despite looking unused. "That's actually his place. He came down from the summit an hour ago. Normally he's not this approachable—you're totally cashing in on some rare luck."

"Thanks!" Relief washed over Elizabeth, and she started to sit up on the stretcher.

"Whoa, slow down," Ivan stopped her. "They're flying in two hours. You've got thirty minutes to get ready. I'll take you down the mountain."

She gave a sharp nod, jumped off the stretcher, and dashed into the bathroom. Warm water melted away the cold and exhaustion.

In the mirror, an old scar near her shoulder blade flashed into view. She grabbed a towel, dried off without fuss, slipped into a clean black coat, and put on her sunglasses.

At the foot of the mountain, a black SUV with hard lines waited quietly in the fading light. A tall man with a crisp demeanor stood by the door. The minute they arrived, he walked over and opened the front passenger door.

"Miss Parker, please take the front seat. The boss prefers quiet," he said flatly, no emotion in his tone.

Got it. Elizabeth waved at Ivan, slid into the seat without hesitation. As soon as the door shut, the soundproof divider between front and back rose silently, sealing off any noise.

A cool scent of cedar mixed with premium leather filled the space. Her eyes casually swept the interior—custom bulletproof design, every detail impeccably done.

So, the mysterious Bradford from Capital, private jet, NATO connections...

Her lips tugged into a smirk. Behind her sunglasses, a sharp glint flickered in her eyes.

The Bradford family—over a century of power and wealth. And the man calling the shots was Alexander Bradford.