Chapter 76
The weekend sun cast golden rays over the Kingsley estate as Isabella Sinclair stepped through the wrought-iron gates. Today marked the beginning of her new role—tutoring the young Amelia Kingsley.
Alexander Kingsley, seated in his wheelchair, greeted her with a faint smile. “Welcome, Miss Sinclair.”
Isabella glanced around the grand mansion, lips quirking. “Quite the palace you have here, Mr. Kingsley. I expected a butler, not the CEO himself, to give me the grand tour.”
“For an ordinary tutor, perhaps,” Alexander replied smoothly. “But you are far from ordinary. Besides, Amelia is… particular about strangers. My presence will help ease her into this.”
Amelia’s sculpture studio was nestled beside Alexander’s private quarters—a space that spoke volumes about the little girl’s devotion to her craft. Sunlight streamed through the arched windows, illuminating shelves lined with delicate clay figures and half-finished molds. Outside, a rose garden swayed gently in the breeze, its fragrance drifting inside.
When Isabella pushed open the door, she found Amelia crouched in the corner, her small hands shaping a lump of clay with intense focus. The girl didn’t even glance up at the intrusion.
“Is she on the spectrum?” Isabella asked softly.
Alexander’s jaw tightened briefly before he answered. “No. Amelia is my late brother’s daughter. His death… affected her deeply. The doctors diagnosed her with reactive autism.”
A shadow flickered across his face—anger, grief, something raw—before it vanished behind his usual composed mask. Isabella caught it, though.
She nodded in understanding. She knew the story—how Alexander’s brother, once a rising star in the business world, had fallen victim to the ruthless underworld. It was a wound that still bled.
Children like Amelia, whose trauma had shaped their silence, were fragile in ways others weren’t. One wrong move, and she might retreat further.
“You’ll tutor her on weekends. Eight thousand a month,” Alexander said abruptly, as if eager to shift the conversation. He twisted the ruby ring on his finger absently before gesturing toward Amelia. “Do your best, Miss Sinclair.”
“Eight thousand for eight days?” Isabella arched a brow. “You don’t hold back, do you?”
His gaze was steady. “You were Benjamin Hawthorne’s protégé. Your skills are worth far more than this.”
Unlike Ethan Blackwood, who had doubted her at every turn, Alexander was a man who recognized value quickly. His trust wasn’t given lightly, but once earned, it came with respect—and a generous paycheck.
Isabella exhaled, then turned her attention to Amelia. She crouched beside the girl, observing the careful movements of her fingers. After a moment, Isabella picked up a spare tool and a small block of clay, working silently beside her.
Alexander watched from the doorway. The scent of roses mingled with the earthy tang of clay, filling the room with quiet warmth. He hadn’t asked for miracles—just for Amelia to find her voice again, one small step at a time.
And as the sunlight painted the room gold, Isabella knew she’d do everything in her power to make that happen.
