Chapter 283
Their exchange was dripping with false pleasantries, each word laced with unspoken sarcasm.
Isabella couldn’t resist the urge to provoke him, her voice laced with exaggerated sweetness.
“I thought I was out of practice, but stepping onto the ice again felt like coming home.”
“Just a casual race, nothing extraordinary,” Alexander replied with deliberate nonchalance, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his teacup. “Though I suppose you might actually be the retired champion you claim to be.”
A mischievous glint danced in her eyes as she countered, “Who knows? Maybe I even held a world record once.”
The confidence radiating from her was intoxicating—a perfect blend of self-assurance and razor-sharp wit.
And she wasn’t entirely lying.
Years ago, she had competed on the international short-track speed skating circuit. Offers from elite teams had poured in, but she’d turned them all down. To her, skating was just a passion—a fleeting joy, not a career.
Alexander leaned back, resting his chin on his hand as he studied her.
For reasons he couldn’t quite name, he found himself drawn to this version of her—bold, unapologetic, and just a little bit reckless. Even in jest, her charm was magnetic.
What fascinated him most was how effortlessly she wore her cunning beneath an innocent facade.
They were two sides of the same coin.
As he lifted his tea, lost in thought, he murmured, “I didn’t always like short-track skating, you know.”
“Oh?”
“After the accident—the one that stole my memories—I developed a strange fascination for extreme sports. Speed skating was one of them.”
Isabella tilted her head. “Maybe someone taught you before the amnesia. Muscle memory is a stubborn thing.”
She couldn’t help but draw parallels between Alexander and Ethan. Both had been betrayed by their fathers. Both had lost fragments of their past.
Yet their personalities couldn’t have been more different.
“Perhaps,” Alexander murmured, his gaze dropping.
A sharp pain flared behind his temples, scattering the fragile wisps of memory before they could fully form. A fleeting image—a girl’s face—then nothing but throbbing agony.
“Mr. Kingsley?” Isabella frowned as his expression tightened. The composed man from moments ago now looked pale, his fingers pressing into his temples.
“It’s nothing,” he managed, forcing a sip of scalding tea. “Just an old headache.”
Slowly, his breathing steadied.
“Nerve-related, the doctors say. Makes it difficult to recall certain things.”
Truthfully, he didn’t care much about the missing pieces. But society demanded perfection, and curiosity gnawed at him—what had his childhood been like?
And then there were the headaches. Years of them. The doctors suspected they were tied to the memories he couldn’t access.
But his life was complicated enough without digging into the past.
“Maybe it’s better this way,” Isabella said softly, thinking of Ethan. “Some memories are better left buried.”
She knew that better than anyone.
The boy who had once carried her through storms, who had promised her forever, was gone. The man who remained was a stranger.
Yet the Kingsley family seemed plagued by their own demons—Amelia with her autism, Cassandra slipping into Alzheimer’s, Alexander and his relentless pain.
A cursed bloodline, perhaps.
Alexander clearly wanted to change the subject.
“Actually, there’s something I’d like your help with.”
“Oh?”
“Dominic Sterling is hosting a charity gala next month. He’s invited me.” He set down his cup, the headache finally receding. “I need a companion. Would you do me the honor?”
A faint smirk played on his lips. “You won’t have to lift a finger. Just stand there and look beautiful.”
His grip on the teacup tightened imperceptibly.
Isabella, oblivious, simply nodded.
The gala itself didn’t interest her.
But the auction?
That was where her mother’s missing heirlooms might finally surface.
