The air was thick with anticipation as Isabella Sinclair stood encircled by an awestruck crowd. With deliberate grace, she lifted a piece of clay and lightly misted it with water.
Alexander Kingsley’s breath hitched as realization dawned—she had been slowing her pace intentionally, guiding him through each meticulous step.
In mere moments, the clay in his hands began to shift, transforming under her watchful eye. The raw art of sculpting seamlessly transitioned into the refined precision of carving.
“It’s like witnessing magic,” someone whispered in reverence.
Ethan Blackwood and Sophia Kensington, who had earlier scoffed at Isabella’s abilities, now stood rigid, beads of sweat forming on their brows. Their eyes darted between her hands and the emerging masterpiece, searching for any sign of deception.
Alexander had expected her to rely on his assistance, but she only requested the occasional tool.
“The finest file,” she instructed, her voice steady amidst the charged silence.
Her fingers moved with effortless mastery, the clay yielding to her touch as if alive. When Alexander passed her the delicate tool, the faint scent of plum blossoms teased his senses again. His throat tightened as he gently dabbed the handkerchief against her forehead, his fingertips grazing her impossibly smooth skin.
For a fleeting second, an inexplicable familiarity tugged at him.
Yet Isabella remained wholly absorbed, her focus unbroken. With each precise flick of her wrist, fragments of clay fell away, revealing the fluid contours of a mountainscape beneath her deft touch.
In that quiet space, surrounded by the earthy scent of ceramics, Alexander felt an unfamiliar peace settle over him. The usual restlessness that plagued him faded into the background.
Isabella was an enigma—youthful yet poised, distant yet magnetic. Her presence reminded him of the mysterious woman from that unforgettable night, the one who had effortlessly disarmed him before vanishing at dawn.
The courtyard, once buzzing with murmurs, had fallen into a hushed reverence. Even Ethan, who had been so certain of her failure, now struggled to reconcile the scene before him.
“This can’t be…”
A memory surfaced—the small ceramic dog she had gifted him years ago. In a moment of thoughtless anger, he had shattered it against the floor. The fragments had scattered, just as their relationship had.
Since then, Isabella had withdrawn further, never offering him anything again.
A pang of regret twisted in his chest. Had he overlooked something irreplaceable?
As the golden hues of sunset painted the sky, Isabella completed her masterpiece. The entire process had been flawless.
Benjamin Hawthorne, her mentor, could barely contain his admiration.
“Magnificent! Absolutely breathtaking.”
When Isabella finally looked up, a crisp handkerchief was extended toward her. She accepted it with quiet grace, dabbing at her brow as cheers erupted around them. Even Alexander’s lips curved into a rare, amused smile.
“I’d pay a fortune to have Miss Sinclair curate my gallery,” someone declared eagerly.
Voices overlapped as admirers vied for her attention, but Benjamin swiftly intervened.
“Enough! My studio is closed for the month.”
Cradling the intricately patterned tea set with trembling hands, his eyes glistened. “This… this is a masterpiece. I could die content now.”
Isabella shook her head gently. “Nonsense. You’ll live to see a hundred.”
Benjamin’s love for ceramics was legendary, but even he had never witnessed such artistry.
With serene composure, Isabella turned her gaze toward Ethan and Sophia, their earlier arrogance now replaced with visible discomfort.
