The forum page glowed with high-reward listings, each promising answers for a price.
Isabella Sinclair didn’t hesitate. She scrolled through the posts, searching for any mention of the snake bracelet—a search she had repeated endlessly. The forum was a treasure trove of obscure information, but the bracelet remained as elusive as a whisper in the wind.
No new leads.
With a quiet exhale, she shut her laptop and leaned back in her chair. Disappointment settled in her chest like a weight. That bracelet was the last tangible piece of her mother, the only clue left in her search for the truth.
And then there was Charisma Company.
Her fingers tapped absently against the desk, a restless rhythm. Years ago, Charisma’s enigmatic CEO had submitted a fragrance to the International Perfumery Competition—anonymously. The scent had been strange, almost contradictory: icy and distant, yet wrapped in the delicate warmth of orchids. The combination had struck her instantly, reminding her of her mother’s signature style.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
She wouldn’t let this lead slip away.
“The fourth International Perfume Competition,” she murmured, exhaustion tugging at her. Competing meant stepping into the spotlight, something she usually avoided. But if it brought her closer to the truth about her parents, she had no choice.
Her gaze drifted to the window, where the city lights drowned out the stars, leaving only the moon hanging like a silver pendant in the sky. She had been working late again.
Stretching, she decided it was time for a shower and sleep. But as she caught her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window, a sudden realization hit her.
Where was the necklace? Had she lost it?
Frowning, she sifted through her memories. The last time she’d seen it was that chaotic night with Alexander. It had vanished since then.
Given how that night had ended—with torn clothes and scattered belongings—it wasn’t surprising the necklace had disappeared too.
Annoyance flared, and she clenched her jaw. “That jerk.”
At least it was just a simple necklace, nothing traceable.
Saturday, Athton
Benjamin Hawthorne’s village was a haven of quiet artistry, far from the city’s noise. Nearly every household here was devoted to pottery, the earthy scent of clay lingering in the air like a comforting embrace.
His garden was a sanctuary—roses climbed the pergola, sunlight dappling through the leaves, casting a golden glow over everything.
The moment Isabella stepped inside, her eyes landed on the figure seated among the greenery.
Alexander Kingsley sat by the windowsill, two cats curled beside him. His hands moved with practiced ease, shaping a delicate clay vase. Despite his reputation for being sharp-tongued and intimidating, there was an unexpected softness to him now. His sharp features—the strong jaw, the piercing eyes—were relaxed, his focus entirely on the clay.
A small mole at the base of his throat caught the light, adding an almost distracting hint of sensuality.
Isabella shook her head slightly. Gentle and Alexander Kingsley didn’t belong in the same sentence.
“Hello, Mr. Kingsley,” she greeted coolly.
She wasn’t entirely surprised to see him here. Benjamin had mentioned his presence.
Alexander had noticed her the moment she entered, but he didn’t speak until she did.
“Long time no see.” His voice was smooth, almost amused. “Congratulations on the divorce, by the way.”
She arched a brow. “Most people don’t congratulate someone like that.”
“For you, it’s a blessing.” His fingers never stilled, the clay yielding beneath his touch. “Ethan was never worthy of you.”
