“It was just an impulse buy back then, but now it’s become a collector’s item.”
Alexander wasn’t entirely sure if his senses were deceiving him, but there was a distinct shift in Isabella’s tone—a softness, as if the mention of perfume genuinely delighted her.
The courtyard was bathed in golden sunlight, casting a warm glow over everything. Two cats weaved between his legs, their tails brushing against him as they meowed for attention. The faint scent of plum blossoms clinging to Isabella soothed the restless energy simmering inside him.
Distracted, he pressed too hard into the clay, leaving an unintended dent.
“Careful,” he murmured. “Don’t force it. Let the clay guide you. Shape it gently until it starts to take form naturally—then you can refine it.”
Isabella snapped her fingers lightly, adjusting his grip with a subtle touch, guiding his fingers where they needed to be. “If you want it to have life, don’t treat it like dead weight,” she said softly. “And stop curling your fingers like that.”
Their fingertips brushed, sending a jolt through him like static electricity. He resisted the urge to pull back—it would be too obvious, too deliberate. Her voice lingered in the air, quiet yet commanding, as if she alone could anchor him. He noticed her hands—pale but warm, calloused against his fingers.
From where I sat, I could see his face, completely absorbed in the clay. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, but his movements were precise. The calluses on his fingertips—especially his ring and index fingers—reminded me of my own, though his had been earned through years of handling firearms.
“Support it more from underneath,” he added.
Alexander mentally shook himself. Isabella? Interested in me? Impossible. He had been raised on gunpowder and violence; she seemed detached, indifferent to the world around her. And if she knew how to handle a gun, Ethan Blackwood probably wouldn’t still be standing.
I was overthinking this.
As the clay took shape beneath his fingers, Alexander found himself smiling—a genuine smile, one that softened his usually sharp features. It was an unfamiliar expression, and the warmth in his own eyes surprised him.
Unnoticed by them, Ethan had stepped into the courtyard, his hand entwined with Sophia Kensington’s. The sight before them made them freeze.
A man and a woman, sitting together, shaping clay—so at ease, as if they belonged there.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Ethan asked, frowning. He squinted, struggling to reconcile the woman before him with the Isabella he knew. She wasn’t supposed to be here, let alone making pottery with Alexander Kingsley—a man infamous for his impatience and volatile temper since his injury.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Sophia replied, though doubt flickered in her wide eyes.
As they approached, there was no mistaking it. It was Isabella and Alexander.
A flash of jealousy crossed Sophia’s face, but she quickly smoothed it into a polite smile. “What a coincidence, Isabella! I didn’t expect you to move so fast. I heard tracking down Benjamin Hawthorne takes weeks—maybe longer, given how elusive he is. And his prices are astronomical…” She trailed off, as if suddenly remembering. “Oh, right! You just came into quite a fortune—four million, wasn’t it? I suppose this kind of expense must be pocket change for you now.”
Isabella didn’t even glance at her, as if she were invisible.
Realizing her attempt at stirring tension was failing, Sophia forced herself to speak again. “You must be Mr. Kingsley? I didn’t expect to find you here.”
Ethan, snapped out of his thoughts by her words, masked his surprise. He stepped forward, offering a practiced smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Kingsley. It’s… unexpected to meet you here.”
The courtesy between them was stiff, rehearsed.
Alexander didn’t look up. Instead, his attention remained fixed on Isabella. “Is this alright?”
“Yes, you’ve got the technique now,” she replied.
“This piece is decent, but still a little embarrassing,” Alexander admitted, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
“What’s embarrassing about it?” Isabella asked, genuinely puzzled. To her, this was far better than his earlier attempts.
“Art should strive for perfection,” he mused. “But when a flaw appears, it’s hard to ignore. Perfection is rare—and even harder to maintain. Yet some people insist on creating unnecessary disruptions.” His tone darkened, the underlying message clear: Leave.
Anyone with common sense would take the hint.
Sophia struggled to keep her composure, while Ethan reluctantly lowered his hand, his jaw tight with suppressed frustration. He wasn’t used to being dismissed, but he wasn’t a fool either. He knew Alexander had no interest in entertaining them.
“Ethan,” Sophia whispered, tugging his sleeve as if afraid he might snap.
Swallowing his pride—aware of the business stakes—Ethan forced a thin smile. “You’re absolutely right, sir. Your perspective on art is… enlightening.”
His compliment was stiff, barely masking his irritation.
Sophia, seeing his effort, brightened again. “Mr. Kingsley, your craftsmanship is remarkable,” she gushed, flashing a charming smile. “I’ve rarely seen such perfectly shaped pottery. Even just looking at the form, I can tell it’s top-tier. I may not know how to make pottery, but I do appreciate it. That’s why we came all this way to learn from Mr. Hawthorne, the master potter. Meeting you is an unexpected bonus.”
With a delicate motion, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her voice sweet. “Mr.
