Chapter 289
A week later, at the charity gala.
The event hadn’t begun yet, and the grand hall buzzed with anticipation. Alexander stood by the balcony, watching as Isabella leaned against the railing, lost in thought.
Her gaze was fixed on the restless, ink-black sea, the wind tousling her hair. The night air was crisp, biting at her exposed skin, turning the tip of her nose a delicate shade of pink.
He stepped closer, offering his suit jacket. His voice was smooth, laced with quiet authority.
“Ms. Sinclair, it’s cold out here. You’re welcome to borrow this.”
Isabella blinked, startled by his sudden presence. After a brief hesitation, she accepted the jacket, draping it over her shoulders. The warmth seeped into her skin instantly.
“Thank you, Mr. Kingsley,” she murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The sea breeze carried the faint scent of salt and tequila from the glass in his hand.
A small smile curved her lips. “How did you find me?”
The past few days had been chaotic. After receiving that photo from Alexander, she’d asked Julian to dig deeper, but the trail had gone cold. Her last hope now rested with Alexander’s grandmother, Cassandra, whose fading memory made everything more complicated.
Alexander handed her a glass of tequila, the golden liquid catching the dim light. “I was exploring and saw you here. Thought you might appreciate some company.”
“Is that so?” She clinked her glass against his, the sound sharp and clear. “Honestly, I’d rather be out here than trapped inside with all those people.”
The gala was a spectacle of wealth—custom gowns, glittering jewels, and forced smiles. But outside, the air was fresh, the silence comforting.
Alexander leaned against the railing beside her, his eyes lingering on her profile. Most women at these events dressed to impress, but Isabella had chosen simplicity—a deep violet fishtail dress that hugged her curves effortlessly. It wasn’t designer, but the craftsmanship was impeccable, the fabric flowing like liquid against her skin.
Her hair, slightly curled, cascaded down her back, catching the moonlight. She looked like a vintage wine—rich, intoxicating, impossible to ignore.
“That dress suits you,” Alexander remarked, his voice low. “It looks like it was made just for you.”
He didn’t ask why she hadn’t worn the gown he’d sent. Instead, his attention was drawn to the intricate stitching along the waistline, the subtle lace detailing at the back. Whoever had made this had skill.
“It is handmade,” she admitted, pleased he’d noticed. She had designed it herself.
Then, with a sigh, she added, “I did receive your gift. But the storm ruined it before I could wear it.”
The LV couture piece—black and white, one-of-a-kind—had been destroyed by the rain. She’d opened the box to find the fabric stained, the delicate embroidery ruined.
She pulled out a card, offering it to him. “This is for the dress. One million. Consider it an apology.”
Alexander gently pushed the card back into her hand. His fingers brushed hers, sending a spark through her.
“The dress doesn’t matter. Neither does the money.”
The night stretched between them, the air thick with unspoken words. The scent of tequila mingled with the salt of the sea, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
