Chapter 267
The sun blazed overhead as we stood on the manicured greens of the golf course.
Despite Victoria Kingsley’s serpent-like sharpness, an icy shiver slithered down her spine the moment her eyes locked with Isabella Sinclair’s. Her lips curved into a tight smile, strained as if forced through the teeth of a trap.
Had I known it would come to this, I would have intervened sooner.
Beneath that polished facade, Victoria’s thoughts dripped with venomous sarcasm.
Isabella was nothing but a fragile waif—a mere shadow of a woman.
Yet somehow, she managed to make Victoria’s blood run cold.
How utterly ridiculous. No matter how hardened Isabella pretended to be, she was still just an orphan with no real power.
Damian Kingsley shot Isabella a look of pure disdain.
“Ms. Sinclair,” he sneered, “I know you’re working for Kingsley Group, but that doesn’t give you the right to meddle in our affairs. If you have any sense, you’ll step aside—take James and leave. My mother and I are here to see Amelia.”
His tone made it clear—this wasn’t a request. It was a demand.
Damian reached for Amelia, his fingers twitching with impatience.
“Come here, Amelia. Let Uncle Damian hold you.”
But the little girl trembled violently, burying her face deeper into Isabella’s shoulder, her tiny fingers clutching at her like a lifeline.
Isabella’s eyes narrowed. Without hesitation, she slapped Damian’s hand away.
“Amelia isn’t comfortable right now. She’s clearly afraid of you. I suggest you back off before you make it worse.”
Damian let out a derisive scoff. “Afraid of me? Don’t be absurd, Isabella. You’re overstepping!”
As his temper flared, Julian Whitmore appeared, gripping Damian’s wrist with surprising strength.
“Amelia is recovering. She needs peace, not a spectacle. Don’t cause a scene here.” Julian’s smile was pleasant, but his grip was iron.
“Mr. Damian Kingsley,” he said, voice deceptively light, “must I spell it out for you?”
As a renowned doctor, Julian had little patience for troublesome relatives. He suspected Damian and Victoria weren’t here out of concern—they were here to stir trouble, and Amelia’s fragile state couldn’t handle it.
Victoria, ever the actress, feigned concern. “Damian, I know you care about Amelia, but right now, we must follow the doctor’s orders. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
She turned to Julian, her frown carefully crafted. In truth, her sharp eyes kept flicking to Amelia, assessing her injuries, calculating how much progress she’d made.
Then, with practiced politeness, she addressed Julian. “You must be Dr. Whitmore from MDH Pharmaceutical Research Institute. I’ve heard such impressive things about your work. But please, don’t misunderstand—we’re family. We only want what’s best for Amelia.”
Julian’s smile remained, but his words were razor-sharp. “Amelia’s recovery is progressing. Unless you have something useful to contribute, I suggest you leave. Let’s not disrupt her treatment.”
As one of the leading experts in mental health, Julian had no patience for games—and he wasn’t afraid to show it.
Victoria’s composure cracked—just slightly. No one in the Kingsley estate had dared speak to her like this before.
Damian’s face darkened with rage. “You’re just a doctor,” he spat. “We pay you to do your job. At the end of the day, you’re nothing more than a servant to the Kingsley family. Watch your tone.”
With that, he made another grab for Amelia.
“I don’t believe for a second that she’s as fragile as you claim. I’m taking her with us, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
But before his fingers could close around her, a sharp crack echoed through the air as his wrist was violently twisted back.
“Ah—!” Damian howled in pain, cold sweat beading on his forehead as his arm was locked in an unyielding grip.
Just as he was about to unleash a string of curses, his gaze landed on him.
Alexander Kingsley—who had been confined to a wheelchair for as long as anyone could remember—now stood tall, towering over Damian with an aura of absolute authority.
“Leave,” Alexander commanded, his voice glacial. With one final shove, he sent Damian stumbling back, his wrist already swelling an angry red.
Damian crashed to the ground like a discarded puppet.
Alexander handed a stuffed bunny to Amelia and turned to James. “Take her back to rest.”
“Yes, Mr. Kingsley,” James replied instantly.
Then, Alexander’s attention shifted to Isabella. “My apologies for the disturbance, Ms. Sinclair.”
Isabella passed Amelia to James and exhaled. “No need to apologize. Honestly, I’ve been in a mood lately. This was… cathartic.”
Without missing a beat, she casually stepped on Damian’s fingers.
“Oh dear,” she cooed, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “I didn’t see you there, Mr. Kingsley. Are you alright?”
Her smile was angelic—a stark contrast to the merciless grind of her stiletto heel into Damian’s hand.
“AAAHHH!”
His screams echoed across the estate.
