Sophia stood frozen, her shock mirroring Ethan’s expression.
It was one thing for Isabella to lose her temper—but to strike Ethan Blackwood himself? Unthinkable.
No one would have guessed the usually gentle and composed woman could deliver such a blow.
The Isabella who once endured everything in silence was gone.
“Did I lose my mind? Darling, I’ve always been this way,” Isabella said, wiping her fingers with a tissue, her voice laced with icy amusement.
The truth was obvious—Sophia and Ethan had been tangled together since the moment she returned to the industry.
“Mr. Blackwood, your grandfather is being discharged tomorrow. I’ll be there. But as for my invitation to Cobweb? Consider it revoked.”
Ethan opened his mouth to argue, but Isabella silenced him with a dazzling, razor-sharp smile.
“A man as generous as you wouldn’t object, would he? Unless… you still have feelings for me that make letting go impossible?”
Her taunt struck deep. Ethan’s expression darkened like a gathering storm.
“That pathetic little intelligence agency? You think the Blackwoods need Cobweb to survive? I’ll prove to you—even without it, I’ll secure the biggest advertiser in Ontario.”
His eyes burned with barely restrained fury.
“Pack your things and leave by tomorrow. Take every last trace of your worthless existence with you.”
Isabella merely smiled wider, as if his words were nothing but static. Then she pointed at the suit he wore.
“But I designed that. If it’s as disgusting as you claim, shouldn’t you return it?”
The suit had been one of her masterpieces—impeccable tailoring, sapphire-studded buttons glinting against the midnight fabric. Ethan had worn it for years, never realizing its origin.
With a snarl, he tore it off and flung it at her feet.
“Keep it. I doubt someone like you could afford anything better.”
Wordlessly, Isabella picked it up—then tossed it straight into a nearby trash bin.
“Perfect.”
Ethan’s face twisted in disbelief. She was doing this on purpose, and it was working.
Outside, a small crowd had gathered, murmuring among themselves.
“Is that guy her sugar baby? Looks like a messy breakup,” one whispered.
“Ouch. And he’s already got the new girlfriend lined up? Cold,” another added.
Ethan’s jaw clenched, his temper fraying. Just as he was about to explode, Isabella turned and walked away, leaving nothing but dust in her wake.
How had he never seen this side of her—the fire beneath the calm?
Meanwhile, in the penthouse suite of the Royal Princess, Alexander Kingsley woke to sunlight streaming through the windows.
The room bore traces of last night’s indulgence—rumpled sheets, discarded clothes. Like a predator rousing from sleep, he reached across the bed.
The other side was cold. She was gone.
His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing as he lifted a pearl necklace from beneath his pillow—one she must have left behind.
The piece was striking, wild yet elegant, much like its owner. Beneath her composed exterior, there had always been something untamed.
Alexander rubbed his temples, the memory of her lithe silhouette still vivid. Her voice echoed in his mind, bold and unapologetic.
“I’ll be in charge.”
Even he had to admit—her movements had been precise, deliberate. Though she hadn’t fought in years, she’d wounded him, a testament to the strength she hid.
Alexander thrived on danger—racing, fighting, teetering on the edge where one wrong move meant everything.
Last night? That had been different.
A clash of equals. The kind that left his pulse racing long after.
But what gnawed at him now was the unsettling realization—they were cut from the same cloth. Their meeting hadn’t been chance. It was as if fate had pulled them into each other’s orbit.
Lost in thought, he reached for his phone—then paused.
A note lay beneath his gun, held down by a wad of cash. The handwriting was messy, but the message clear:
“Your performance was lacking. Consider this your tip—minus deductions.”
For a moment, his eyes darkened. Then a slow, amused chuckle escaped him.
That was so like her. He could practically see the smirk on her face as she wrote it.
Who else would dare? The thought only intrigued him more.
He dialed a number, his voice cold.
“Handle the ones who followed me last night. Permanently.”
“It’s already done,” the voice on the other end replied, tense. “But we still don’t know who sent them.”
“That drug last night came from Shadow’s new batch. Find the source.”
Alexander paused, fingers tightening around the necklace.
“And find out who the woman in Room 403 was.”
