Chapter 117
The winding mountain road stretched behind Isabella as she steered her car back toward Muisvedo, her focus split between the asphalt ahead and the urgent call with the director of the MDH Pharmaceutical Research Institute.
“So, you’re telling me the drug is still in trials?” she pressed, fingers tightening around the wheel.
“How much longer do we have?” His voice crackled through the speaker, laced with impatience.
If Isabella wanted to uncover the truth about Cassandra, she needed a viable treatment—fast.
Alzheimer’s.
“Miss Sinclair,” the director sighed, “as you know, Alzheimer’s research is a marathon, not a sprint. We’ve dedicated years to this, but breakthroughs don’t happen overnight. That said, we have made progress. The drug is advancing through trials, but it needs more time.” His tone was cautious, measured.
Isabella exhaled sharply. Rushing this could backfire spectacularly. She couldn’t gamble with Cassandra’s health.
After ending the call, she refocused on the road. By the time she reached Muisvedo, the server warehouse loomed ahead, tucked between narrow alleys and rows of parked cars.
As she stepped out, a massive digital billboard across the street caught her eye. Its vibrant display advertised a new comic series:
“Latest Masterpiece by Acclaimed Artist Xavier Delmar—Now Available!”
A cluster of young women with megaphones hyped up the crowd, while fans buzzed with excitement.
“Xavier Delmar is unreal,” one gushed. “Hands down the hottest comic artist out there.”
“Right? And he’s only, like, twenty? Plus, his stories are insane,” another added.
Normally, Isabella would’ve tuned them out. But something about the cover art snagged her attention. She grabbed a copy and flipped through it.
With each page, her expression darkened, the air around her turning icy. The script, the pacing, the plot twists—it was all hers. Abandoned drafts from her Leswington days, repackaged under a different name.
Her thumb brushed the author’s name: Xavier Delmar. A dry laugh escaped her.
An old “friend”—the editor she’d once worked with.
“This artist seems popular,” Isabella remarked casually to a nearby fan, though her voice carried an edge.
The girl blinked, then nodded eagerly. “Oh, totally! Xavier’s blowing up online. He’s doing a signing at the Commerce Building next week. You should go!”
Next week, huh? Isabella set the comic down. She wasn’t one for impulsive detours, but for this? She’d make time.
“Do you know him?” the girl ventured.
Isabella’s lips curled slightly. “No.”
If Xavier had been stealing her work behind her back, he’d never expected her to find out.
It all made sense now. After vanishing from Leswington without a trace, Xavier must’ve assumed her drafts were fair game. He’d never imagined their paths would cross again—especially not in Ontdale.
Years ago, Isabella would’ve stormed in, demanding answers from anyone daring to plagiarize her. But that fire had tempered. Right now, the server took priority.
After fixing the issue in Muisvedo, Isabella returned home, washing away the day’s grime under a scalding shower. Collapsing onto the bed, she muttered, “I’m slipping.”
It’d been ages since she’d tinkered with servers, and even minor troubleshooting left her with a pounding headache. The exhaustion hit harder than it used to.
With a sigh, she stared at the moonlight streaking through the curtains, her thoughts drifting to the battle ahead: securing treatment for Cassandra.
And then there was Alexander. The thorn in her side she couldn’t ignore.
She needed him on her side—now. His trust was the key to getting Cassandra abroad for treatment.
Then there was Charisma Company. Every shadow in its past needed to be dragged into the light. No loose ends.
Decision made, Isabella fired off a message to Alexander:
“Mr. Kingsley, that partnership offer still stands.”
His reply was immediate.
“Yes. I keep my promises.”
No elaboration needed. They both knew the stakes.
“If you’re open to it, I can increase your shares.”
“Unnecessary. Thirty percent is enough.”
A pause. Then:
“We have a private lab. You’re welcome anytime, Miss Sinclair. Once a month would suffice.”
“I appreciate that. Truly.”
Alexander stared at his screen, the words lingering like a ghost of a smile. Unconsciously, his own lips curved as he lost himself in thought.
Nearby, James paused mid-stride, observing Alexander’s uncharacteristic distraction. He’d been glued to his phone for ages.
Something was definitely up.
