Chapter 205
The moment Darren Whitlock was tossed onto the pavement like yesterday’s garbage, a crowd gathered instantly, their murmurs rising like a swarm of bees. Each whisper was a fresh cut to his already wounded pride.
What a pathetic sight.
Above him, Sebastian Harrington stood tall, his cold gaze slicing through Darren like a blade. “Trash like you doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Ms. Sinclair,” Sebastian sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “Try this again, and I’ll make sure you regret it ten times over.”
Darren didn’t dare fight back. Instead, he nodded frantically, his voice shaking as he groveled. “I-I was wrong! Please, have mercy!” Humiliation burned through him, but as the crowd dispersed, he scurried away like a rat into the shadows.
Clutching the phone number Sophia Kensington had slipped him, his rage simmered beneath the surface.
Isabella, if you want to play dirty, don’t blame me for what comes next.
Once, he’d hesitated—some foolish remnant of their childhood bond had held him back. But kindness had gotten him nowhere. If she wouldn’t give him what he wanted willingly, he’d take it by force.
Meanwhile, at the company, Isabella was absorbed in blending a new fragrance, Darren already a distant memory in her mind. To her, he was nothing but a coward—one who preyed on the weak but crumbled the moment someone pushed back. After today, she assumed he’d learned his lesson.
The whole incident was just another piece of gossip to laugh about later.
But just as she was packing up, her phone rang.
An unknown number.
She answered without thinking, but the moment Darren’s voice slithered through the receiver, her blood turned to ice.
“Isabella, seems like you’re rolling in cash these days. Ever thought about finding your parents and doing right by them?”
Her grip tightened around the phone. “What are you talking about?”
“That photo of your mother—the one you used to keep under your pillow every night. I’ve got it. Want it back? Meet me at The Rusty Spoon. Bring a hundred thousand dollars, or you’ll regret it.”
Her jaw clenched. She’d turned the orphanage upside down searching for that photo years ago. And now, Darren had it?
“Fine,” she bit out, her voice sharp as steel.
She knew it was a trap. A hundred thousand was pocket change to her, but Darren’s greed was bottomless. That photo was just the bait—he’d want more.
Fine. She’d get the photo back, then make sure he never bothered her again.
The café was empty when she arrived, the only sound the sharp click of her heels against the tiled floor. She pushed open the door to the private room—and there he was, smirking behind a steaming cup of coffee.
“Isabella,” he purred, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Have a drink. Then we’ll talk about the photo.”
His grin was crooked as he slid the cup toward her, fingers lingering just a second too long.
She twirled the spoon lazily, her eyes never leaving his. The glint of triumph in his gaze didn’t escape her. Even a fool could tell something was off about that coffee.
“Where’s the photo?” Her words were slow, deliberate.
Darren chuckled, reaching into his jacket. “Right here,” he taunted, waving it just out of reach. “Now—where’s the money?”
“In the briefcase. See for yourself.” She tapped the sleek case beside her.
His eyes lit up with greed, already picturing the stacks of cash inside. He stood, his hunger overriding caution.
The second his back was turned, her fingers moved—swift, silent. Their cups switched places.
“Hand over the photo, and the money’s yours,” she said coolly.
Darren smirked, settling back into his seat. “What’s the rush? Let’s have a drink first—for old times’ sake.”
She stirred her cup, her lips curling slightly. “You didn’t put anything in this, did you?” Her tone was light, almost playful, but the challenge was clear.
His grin faltered for half a second before he forced a laugh. “Of course not! Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Without hesitation, he lifted the cup to his lips and drained it in one go. “See? Perfectly safe.”
Isabella took a slow sip from her own cup, her gaze never leaving his.
“Honestly, Isabella,” Darren sighed, leaning in with fake sincerity. “I never wanted things to get this ugly between us. If you’d just been a little kinder, we wouldn’t be here. I really did care about you, you know? Why couldn’t you just give me a chance?”
Confident his plan was working, he played the pity card.
“And when we find your mother,” he continued, voice thick with fake emotion, “we could take care of her together. Wouldn’t that be what you’ve always wanted?”
Her lips curled into a sneer, her eyes glacial. “Why don’t you take care of your own parents? Oh, right—you don’t have any.”
