Chapter 55
Alexander Kingsley’s piercing gaze remained unreadable as he lifted the scent strip of perfume number five.
Lemon Blossom? The doubt gnawed at Isabella Sinclair’s mind—this was Scarlet Serpent’s signature. Which meant… Isabella was Scarlet Serpent.
The realization struck Alexander like a thunderbolt.
Of all the fragrances displayed, only this one carried the unmistakable essence of Scarlet Serpent. The scent wasn’t just strikingly similar—it had an immediate, soothing effect on him. Only Scarlet Serpent’s extraction technique could achieve that.
“Congratulations, Ms. Sinclair, on your victory,” Alexander said, his tone laced with quiet intrigue. “I must admit, you hid it well. That unusual fragrance you claimed to have stumbled upon… was it truly yours?”
His mind flashed back to their first meeting in his office, when she’d casually mentioned purchasing the perfume. Alexander had later sent his men to scour the most exclusive boutiques in the city, yet none had come close. Each attempt had been a pale imitation—like comparing silver to tin.
Isabella, sharp as ever, caught the implication in his words. “I could never rival your reputation, Mr. Kingsley. Charisma Perfumes is already legendary. Though, I must say… your base note lacks originality.”
She hadn’t expected Alexander to be the founder of Charisma. The revelation left a bitter taste in her mouth. If only she’d known years ago—she might have uncovered the truth about her mother sooner.
His eyes remained locked onto hers, searching for any flicker of offense. But to his surprise, there was none. What should have been a veiled accusation of plagiarism didn’t faze her in the slightest.
“Of course not,” Alexander replied, his lips curving into an unshakable smile. “It’s a family secret, passed down through generations. And using ‘Lemon Blossom’ as an alias? You’ve kept a far lower profile than I anticipated.”
Now, he was certain. Isabella was Scarlet Serpent.
Alexander marveled at her. From the Royal Sapphire cruise to Athmore, and now this perfume competition—this woman kept peeling back layer after layer, each revelation more astonishing than the last.
And Isabella knew Alexander held the answers she sought. But this wasn’t the time or place. Not yet.
Their words dripped with polite congratulations, but their locked gazes told another story—a silent duel between two masters, opposites yet undeniably drawn to each other. Sparks crackled between them, though no one else seemed to notice the tension.
Olivia Montgomery, oblivious to the undercurrents, sighed wistfully. “What a shame. If you hadn’t married that scoundrel, you’d have taken the international market by storm years ago. Hell, you’d probably be sitting with the judges right now!” Her admiration was genuine.
Isabella’s fingers absently traced the bracelet on her wrist. “No regrets. I made my choices. The wrong ones, yes, but at least I walked away in time.” Her voice was steady, though flickers of regret surfaced in the quiet moments.
She remembered the hope she’d carried when she married Ethan Blackwood—even crafting a custom fragrance for his birthday. Instead of gratitude, she’d been met with cold disdain. He’d thrown it back at her, calling it worthless.
It had hurt. But now, she could admit it had been part of a larger mistake—her misplaced loyalty to a man who never deserved her.
Ethan, standing nearby, was now the one battling a storm of emotions. His earlier taunt now felt like a slap to his own pride. His expression darkened as he snatched up perfume number five and inhaled. His face twisted in disgust.
“This smells like Sophia’s perfume.”
His accusation sent a ripple of unease through the crowd.
“Could this be cheating? They smell identical.” The murmurs spread, silencing the earlier hum of excitement.
Encouraged by the growing suspicion, Ethan pressed further. “Sophia Kensington is Scarlet Serpent! There’s no way Isabella could have surpassed her. Smell it—number five is nearly identical to Sophia’s signature scent.”
Amid whispers of foul play, several eliminated contestants perked up, intrigued by the unfolding drama. One by one, they leaned in to compare.
The base notes—pine and violet—lingered, masterfully blended. Yet they were undeniably familiar. Scarlet Serpent’s signature style—layered, intricate, enigmatic—wasn’t easily replicated.
Ethan, emboldened by the crowd’s hesitation, turned to Isabella, his voice dripping with accusation.
