Chapter 48
Alexander Kingsley sat on the edge of his massive, silk-draped bed, his fingers gripping the medical report with deceptive calm. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the storm beneath the surface.
This estate was his sanctuary—a place where no one dared disturb him without consequence.
His physician adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses, clearing his throat before speaking. “Mr. Kingsley, your injuries were treated with the utmost precision. There’s no lasting damage, and your recovery is progressing as expected…”
Alexander barely registered the words. They faded into the background, each syllable landing like a hammer on the man kneeling at his feet.
Sebastian Harrington, his most trusted aide, knelt in silent penance, his head bowed. He knew exactly where he had failed.
When the doctor finally left, Sebastian spoke, his voice thick with remorse. “I should have seen it coming. I should have—”
“Enough.” Alexander cut him off, his voice sharp as a blade. The air in the room grew heavier, suffocating under the weight of his presence.
Sebastian swallowed hard. “The man responsible has been apprehended. He’s one of Damian’s, but he won’t talk, no matter what we do.”
Alexander’s fingers traced the spine of a leather-bound book beside him. “Dump him in the Atlantic. You know how to handle it.”
Sebastian nodded. “Consider it done.”
A slow smirk curled Alexander’s lips. “My dear stepbrother’s skills are improving. Pity his company’s finances aren’t. If an audit were to happen… bankruptcy would be inevitable.”
Sebastian understood immediately. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
Sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden streaks across the room. Alexander barely noticed, lost in thought. Then, as if the question had been nagging at him, he asked, “What have you uncovered about Isabella Sinclair’s time on the island?”
Sebastian stiffened, sweat beading at his temples. “Nothing concrete. Her records are clean—too clean. People saw her, but there’s no trace of what she was doing. Her parents’ files are also blank.”
Alexander wasn’t surprised. The woman was a ghost, a puzzle missing half its pieces.
Sebastian hesitated before asking, “Should we… eliminate her? She saw you standing that night.”
Alexander’s fingers stilled. “No.”
Sebastian blinked, taken aback. Alexander never left loose ends.
But Isabella Sinclair wasn’t just any loose end. She was cunning, calculated—perhaps even more dangerous than he was. She wasn’t an ally, but she wasn’t an enemy he needed to deal with yet.
More than anything, Alexander wondered if she might be intrigued by the idea of working with him.
“Isabella,” he murmured, her name rolling off his tongue like a challenge. “You’re a mystery.”
He remembered the way she had gripped his jaw, forcing poison down his throat without hesitation. The memory blurred with the shadowy figure from that night—both enigmatic, both lethal—and yet, against all reason, he found himself drawn to her.
His fingers brushed his chest absently, recalling the way her hands had lingered when she applied the salve. He hadn’t forgotten the sting of her defiance.
The phone on his nightstand buzzed insistently. A slow smirk curved his lips.
Had Isabella finally decided to reach out? Maybe she needed his knowledge for something.
“Made your choice?” he answered, his voice smooth.
On the other end, the director froze, thrown by the unexpected warmth in Alexander’s tone. He glanced at his calendar in confusion—this was a work call. Why did Mr. Kingsley sound almost… amused?
“Uh… sir? It’s Theodore. Theodore Winslow.”
Alexander’s smirk vanished. He blinked, reality crashing back.
Theodore’s hesitant voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Sir? Everything is prepared as you requested. The media and investors are secured for the Perfumery Competition. Charisma’s market value has been rising steadily.”
Alexander’s voice turned icy. “Good. Ensure everything remains flawless.”
Though the world knew him for his mastery of ceramics, his true passion had always been perfumery. He had dominated the industry, outshining every rival—except one.
Scarlet Snake.
The name haunted him. An unassuming figure, rumored to be in his sixties, had effortlessly stolen the championship from him in an international competition. Since then, Alexander had been searching, desperate to uncover the identity of this phantom rival.
But the competition’s strict confidentiality had kept Scarlet Snake’s true identity hidden.
And Alexander was determined to change that.
