Alexander cast a skeptical glance at young Isabella, his mind swirling with suspicion.
Benjamin must be playing some sort of trick on him.
“You don’t have to lie to me if I’m not what you’re looking for,” Alexander said, his voice edged with resignation. “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”
Benjamin, who had been trying to push Alexander away for days, arched a brow. He caught an unexpected flicker of hesitation in Alexander’s expression—something he hadn’t anticipated.
“Already packing up? I thought you had more backbone than that, wheelchair prince,” Benjamin taunted.
Alexander’s fingers traced the smooth surface of the clay in his hands, the cool texture grounding him. There was something meditative about working with it, something that quieted the storm inside him. In those quiet moments, a girl’s face often drifted into his thoughts—soft, smiling, achingly familiar. She was handing him something… but what? The memory slipped through his fingers like water.
Shaking himself back to the present, Alexander said, “That’s exactly why I need your professor’s guidance before I leave.”
Benjamin scoffed, irritation flashing across his face. “You think I have time for games? Ask anyone—lying isn’t my style. Isabella, let him spin his wheels all he wants, but don’t teach him a damn thing!” With that, Benjamin stalked off toward the kitchen, the fish he’d caught dangling limply from his grip.
But as he busied himself with dinner, he kept sneaking glances at the pair, motioning for Isabella to step in.
Isabella merely smiled and offered no explanation.
“Your hands are too rigid,” she observed. She knew Alexander doubted her, but proving herself wasn’t the goal. “If you force the steps, the result will be lifeless. You have to feel the clay, not command it. Too soft, and it crumbles. Too firm, and it cracks. Find the balance—guide it, don’t fight it.”
Her words, simple yet weighted, eased the tension in the room.
Alexander frowned but followed her lead, focusing on the shape forming beneath his fingers. Isabella’s guidance was sparse, but perfectly timed—and slowly, the lump of clay began to resemble a vase.
He blinked in disbelief. “It’s actually coming together!”
Isabella nodded. “You have the foundation. Now refine it.”
He could see where he’d gone wrong—his restless mind had been at war with the patience ceramics demanded. Yet, he hadn’t expected to improve so quickly with just a few pointers.
Without a word, Isabella picked up a carving tool. With effortless precision, she etched into the clay, her movements fluid, practiced. In moments, the silhouette of a phoenix in flight emerged. Her focus was absolute, her usual detached demeanor sharpening as she worked.
As Alexander watched, a cold, commanding voice sliced through his thoughts.
“I’ll be in charge!”
The sound of Benjamin rushing back in shattered the moment. The older man snatched the vase from the table, his eyes widening as he took in the intricate design.
“A phoenix rising from the ashes… reborn through fire and struggle,” Benjamin murmured. “Now that’s something special.”
His gaze lingered on the vase, particularly the phoenix stamped on its surface. Every stroke pulsed with life, vibrant and resilient. He grinned like a child with a secret, completely oblivious to the fish burning in his pan.
Alexander, meanwhile, studied the vase with newfound understanding. He had definitely underestimated Isabella.
“So you really are Benjamin’s teacher,” Alexander said, certainty in his voice.
Isabella neither confirmed nor denied it. “I never claimed to be.”
But Benjamin? His pride was impossible to contain. “Doesn’t matter! As far as I’m concerned, she is my teacher!”
Life had a funny way of working. When they’d first met, Benjamin had been teetering on the edge of a creative crisis so severe it was eating him alive—literally. His hair had started falling out. But after a few words from Isabella and witnessing her skill firsthand, everything had clicked into place. He’d been so awestruck, he’d practically begged to call her his teacher on the spot.
Alexander didn’t waste time. “You want to teach my niece? Name your price. I can even offer you a place to stay. Heard you just finalized your divorce.”
“I’m fine, thanks. Not sleeping under a bridge yet,” Isabella replied, cool as ever.
Alexander shrugged, unfazed. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
He handed her a gold-embossed business card.
Isabella glanced at it, unimpressed, and tucked it into her bag without a second thought. “Sure. If I end up broke and homeless, I’ll look you up.”
Benjamin, lost in his own world, suddenly bellowed, “Enough chit-chat! Get to work on that fish tank I haven’t finished! Next time you visit, I’ll serve you dinner in it. Oh—wait. The fish!”
He bolted for the kitchen in a panic.
Isabella chuckled softly at his frantic exit and, without hesitation, pulled out a sketch. She grabbed a fresh block of clay, testing its firmness between her fingers.
Alexander instinctively stepped back, positioning himself to observe her every move. Her hands shaped the clay with effortless mastery, forming a bowl in no time. Alexander mimicked her technique, adjusting his pressure as if it were second nature.
Then, abruptly, he broke the silence.
