Chapter 212
The lounge was silent except for the soft rustle of gauze as Alexander Kingsley meticulously tended to Isabella Sinclair’s wound with tweezers, his focus unbroken.
“I’ve said this before—leave these matters to me.” His voice was low, measured, each word deliberate. “That wasn’t just courtesy, Ms. Sinclair. If you ever face another lunatic like that, don’t waste a second worrying about the media or the company. I’ll handle it. Getting hurt over something like this is pointless.”
If Sebastian Harrington hadn’t called him earlier, Alexander would still be buried in contracts. But the moment he heard Darren Whitlock had caused trouble again, he dropped everything. No one had expected Darren to be armed with a switchblade.
Isabella, however, seemed unfazed, shrugging lightly. “It’s just a scratch, Mr. Kingsley. No need to fuss.”
Alexander’s jaw clenched. “Yes… Fortunately, it’s just a scratch.”
He couldn’t let the fear show. It had all happened too fast. One wrong move, and that blade could have—he cut the thought short. If Julian Whitmore hadn’t intervened when he did, the knife might have found her heart.
“Do we really need ointment for something this small?” Isabella mused, resting her chin on her palm. “You’re overreacting. And bandages? Isn’t that excessive?” Despite her teasing, she watched as Alexander reached for the gauze with practiced precision. For someone usually so composed, his touch was unexpectedly gentle.
“It is necessary,” he murmured, briefly meeting her gaze. “And you never take proper care of yourself.”
A shadow flickered across his expression as he wrapped the wound with deliberate care. Beneath his calm exterior, turmoil churned. He thought of his legs, the truth he’d hidden for so long. Maybe it was time to stop pretending.
Once finished, Isabella withdrew her hand with a small, appreciative smile. “I’ll be more careful. Thank you, Mr. Kingsley.”
Just then, the door swung open, and Julian stepped inside. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of Isabella smiling, chatting, laughing with Alexander—relaxed in a way he’d never seen before. A pang of loneliness flickered across his face.
Alexander and Isabella. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, his quiet concern met with her lighthearted teasing. They seemed perfectly in sync, as if no one else existed in that moment. From Julian’s angle, Alexander even looked like he was leaning in for a kiss. The air between them was so intimate it felt wrong to intrude.
Julian’s fingers tightened briefly around the door handle before he composed himself and knocked. “Mind if I come in?” His familiar, gentle smile returned as he approached. “The wound doesn’t look serious, but since I’m a doctor, why don’t I take over?” He reached for the medical kit, already pulling out fresh gauze and scissors.
But Alexander shifted his wheelchair just enough to block Julian’s path. “Our company’s first-aid supplies may be basic, but these scissors are sharp. It’d be a shame if you cut yourself. A doctor’s hands are invaluable, after all. I’ll handle it.”
The words were polite, but the intensity in Alexander’s gaze carried unmistakable warning.
Julian’s smile faded. “I appreciate the concern, Mr. Kingsley, but unlike amateurs, I know what I’m doing.”
Their eyes locked in a silent standoff. Julian’s gold-rimmed glasses caught the light, reflecting a faint gleam, while Alexander’s presence grew heavier, more oppressive. Without breaking eye contact, Alexander smoothly took the scissors from Julian’s hand.
“It’s no trouble,” Alexander said softly, though a storm lurked beneath his calm tone.
Isabella’s gaze darted between them. “There’s no need for both of you to play nurse. We’re done here.” She deftly took the scissors, snipping the gauze with a quick, precise motion. “This will do.” She sounded impressed by Alexander’s handiwork.
Alexander remained silent, still caught in the moment her fingers had brushed against his palm. A tingling warmth spread from his wrist to his chest, making his heart stutter. He stared at the cold glint of the scissors, then thought of Darren’s switchblade.
He wasn’t a good man—never claimed to be. But one thing was certain: he couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to Isabella. Not even the smallest scratch.
“You’ve wrapped me up like a mummy, Mr. Kingsley,” Isabella teased, trying to lighten the mood. “I’d have been fine without all this.”
Alexander’s eyes darkened with something unreadable. “I just… don’t want to see you hurt, Ms. Sinclair.”
