Chapter 89
Alexander Kingsley’s expression was as unreadable as a blank canvas, but the faint tightening of his fingers around the armrest of his wheelchair betrayed the tempest raging beneath his composed facade.
He hadn’t anticipated Isabella Sinclair’s retort to be even more dismissive than his own.
With effortless nonchalance, as if discussing the weather, he drawled, “That doesn’t count. That night? Let’s just say you didn’t leave much of an impression.”
His gaze darkened, the memory of the insultingly small tip she’d left flashing through his mind like a bitter aftertaste.
Isabella’s head tilted up slowly, their eyes locking—and in that instant, the air between them crackled with an electric charge, thick enough to choke on.
Alexander’s pulse spiked, his voice lowering to a dangerous murmur.
“Let me make it up to you?” The challenge in his tone was unmistakable.
Her response was a lazy, mocking laugh. “No, thanks. Missed chances don’t come around twice. Screw up once, and you’re out. I don’t do second tries.”
The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, and they stepped inside together.
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension.
Just as the doors began to close, Alexander abruptly pushed himself up from his wheelchair—and in the same breath, Isabella seized his tie, yanking him forward with surprising force.
Their eyes met again, and in that scorching exchange, words were unnecessary. The hunger between them was palpable.
“Nice tie, Mr. Kingsley,” she taunted, her voice light but laced with mischief.
“Your eyes are far more captivating, Miss Sinclair,” he murmured, his hand sliding behind her neck as she kept her grip on his tie.
Their gazes held, and in that suspended moment, it was as if every pretense had been stripped away—raw, exposed, vulnerable.
Alexander could hear his own heartbeat, deafening in his ears, the intensity of the moment crashing over him like a tidal wave.
In perfect sync, they leaned in, their lips colliding with the force of a lightning strike.
The kiss was searing, fierce, unapologetic. Unlike their previous chaotic encounter, this one was deliberate—a silent battle of dominance woven into every brush of lips, every sharp inhale.
Neither was willing to yield.
Isabella tightened her grip on his tie, nearly cutting off his breath, while Alexander’s fingers tangled in her hair, dragging her closer as if he wanted to erase every inch of space between them.
A low, ragged sound escaped one of them—neither would admit who.
The connection between them sizzled like a live wire, a high-stakes game where surrender wasn’t an option.
Yet the thrill of the fight kept them locked in place.
This clash of wills, this intoxicating rivalry, thrummed through their veins, resonating with something primal and undeniable.
The elevator descended rapidly, finally reaching the underground parking lot with a soft clink. A cool gust of air rushed in, carrying the faint, lingering scent of gardenias.
As abruptly as they’d crashed together, they broke apart, the moment dissolving like smoke.
Isabella strode toward her car, twirling her keys idly between her fingers as if nothing had happened.
“Goodbye, Mr. Kingsley,” she tossed over her shoulder, her tone breezy, indifferent.
Without so much as a backward glance, she walked away, leaving him standing there, the ghost of her touch still burning against his skin.
The way she left—so effortlessly, so coldly—reminded him of someone who walks out after a one-night stand, as if the moment had meant nothing at all.
It wasn’t until her car vanished into the distance that Alexander realized the fire hadn’t faded. If anything, it had spread, a slow, consuming heat that refused to be ignored.
“Goodbye, Miss Sinclair,” he murmured to the empty air, more for himself than anyone else.
Women had never been more than fleeting distractions to him—let alone something as intimate as a kiss.
But this kiss had been different from their first.
If their previous encounter had been pure instinct, a surrender to base desire, this one had been laced with something far more dangerous—every unspoken challenge, every spark of tension between them distilled into that single, scorching moment.
Alexander couldn’t begin to unravel the enigma that was Isabella Sinclair.
Her mind was like the still surface of a lake, hiding treacherous currents beneath. Whether it was lust or strategy, she always seemed to be playing a game only she understood.
The thought made him exhale a bitter laugh.
“You’re playing me for a fool.”
She had kissed him—then walked away without a second thought, leaving him to grapple with the aftermath.
No matter how he turned it over in his mind, he couldn’t decipher her.
The faint scent of gardenias still lingered in the cool air, drifting through the parking lot like a ghost—a haunting reminder of what had just passed between them.
