Alexander’s gaze lingered on Isabella as he remarked, “That outfit suits you far better than the last one.”
Isabella was dressed in simple, unremarkable clothes that day—nothing extravagant. Yet there was an effortless grace about her that Alexander found far more appealing than the fussy floral dress she’d worn before. She carried herself with a quiet confidence, an energy he hadn’t noticed until now.
“Thanks,” she replied, her tone indifferent.
“Can’t say the same for your previous choice, though.” Alexander’s lips twitched with amusement, as if recalling something privately entertaining. “It looked like something my great-aunt would wear to Sunday tea.”
Isabella blinked, momentarily speechless.
Alexander Kingsley’s reputation for brutal honesty was well-deserved. He wielded words like a scalpel, precise and unsparing. That he’d managed to avoid getting punched over the years was either a testament to his luck or his ability to hold his own in a fight.
Most people would flinch at such bluntness, but Isabella remained unfazed. She wasn’t the type to wilt under criticism. There was something refreshing about his directness, even when it bordered on cruel. Around him, she didn’t have to maintain the careful facade she wore with the Blackwoods. She could just… be.
As she studied him now, memories of their first meeting surfaced. Two years ago, the Blackwood empire had been teetering on the brink of collapse. Desperate, she’d sought Alexander’s help. She’d waited for hours—four cups of coffee and a growing sense of dread—before his assistant finally ushered her in.
Before she could even open her portfolio, Alexander had leaned forward and asked, “What scent are you wearing?”
It was her own creation, a perfume she’d crafted in secret. Not wanting to reveal that, she’d shrugged. “Just something I picked up. Can’t even remember the name. Do you like it?”
Alexander hadn’t answered. Instead, he’d cut straight to business. “I can secure distribution channels for Blackwood and handle your… problematic partners.” He’d barely glanced at her documents before adding, “Leave the rest of the perfume with me.”
Alexander was unlike anyone she’d ever met—unpredictable, razor-sharp, impossible to read. Without hesitation, she’d pulled the small vial from her purse and set it on his desk.
True to his word, Alexander had worked his connections, pulling Blackwood back from the edge of ruin. All for a bottle of perfume. The rumors about her being unconventional hadn’t even scratched the surface.
That strange bargain had been two years ago. As a perfumer, Isabella took quiet pride in knowing her creation had impressed someone as discerning as Alexander. Seeing him again now, she felt no resentment. Since he’d praised her work, she thought she might return the favor.
She crouched to stroke the lazy orange cat sprawled nearby. The creature immediately rolled onto its back, demanding belly rubs. But when her gaze drifted to the pottery Alexander had been working on, any compliment she’d considered died on her lips.
The lump of clay before her vaguely resembled a vase—if one squinted hard enough. Its lopsided shape and uneven rim made it look more like a failed modern art experiment than functional pottery.
Isabella opened her mouth, then closed it again, struggling to find even a polite lie.
“Don’t bother. I know,” Alexander muttered, a rare note of defeat in his voice.
Isabella laughed, relieved he at least had some self-awareness.
The moment was interrupted as Benjamin strode in, triumphantly holding up a freshly caught fish. “You’re just in time! Caught this today—perfect for dinner. Wait till you taste my recipe.”
“Can’t wait!” Isabella said. She’d missed the fish from this region—sweet, tender, and mercifully free of excessive bones.
But Benjamin’s cheerful expression darkened the instant he noticed Alexander. “He’s not invited.” His disdain deepened as he spotted the botched pottery. The misshapen lump of clay seemed to pain him more than any insult could. “You should be starving by now! How long have you been camped out here? Know when you’re not wanted.”
Unfazed, Alexander replied, “I paid ten times the usual rate. I’ve booked this space for the week, and by the terms, I’m not leaving yet.”
His cool tone clashed with Benjamin’s scowl as the potter tried—and failed—to fix the crooked vase. “This isn’t about money! It’s about you wasting good materials.”
Benjamin’s frustration was palpable. To him, pottery wasn’t just a craft—it was an art form, each piece a labor of love. Watching someone butcher it was physically painful.
“I’ve told you before—you’ve got no talent for this. You’ve ruined more clay than I can count, broken three wheels, and nearly set the kiln on fire twice. Give it up.”
Alexander met his glare with calm defiance. “I enjoy it. When’s your next lesson?”
Benjamin threw his hands up in exasperation, gesturing at Isabella. “What, I’m not good enough to teach you? Fine. My mentor’s right here.”
