Chapter 93
Hearing Isabella Sinclair’s composed directions, the butler sprang into action without hesitation. Guiding Amelia Kingsley, he swiftly ushered her upstairs, hoping to soothe her distress.
“Thank you, Miss Sinclair!” he replied, an unexpected sense of trust blooming toward her. Perhaps it was the way Alexander Kingsley regarded her—any woman who earned his confidence couldn’t possibly be ordinary.
“Easy now, slow and steady!” Isabella urged, turning her attention back to Alexander, carefully guiding him toward the couch.
By now, pain had completely overtaken him, rendering him silent and ghostly pale. His neurogenic headaches were merciless—like a tempest raging inside his skull, bringing dizziness and a deafening ring in his ears. Yet, despite the torment, he endured it silently, teeth clenched, refusing to utter a sound.
Isabella snatched a handful of tissues, dabbing the cold sweat from his forehead. “The doctor will be here soon,” she reassured him softly.
When her fingers brushed his skin, a flicker of recognition crossed Alexander’s agonized expression. Through the haze of pain, a faint, familiar scent reached him—something that momentarily cleared the fog in his mind.
“I… I know this scent…” he murmured weakly, struggling to form coherent words. “Your… homemade perfume…”
Isabella suddenly remembered their past conversation. Without hesitation, she reached into her bag, retrieving a small bottle of perfume and spritzing the air. The moment the fragrance filled the room, Alexander inhaled deeply, and a fraction of tension eased from his rigid frame.
But the pain was relentless, clinging to him like a shadow. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples, his lashes trembling as his body shuddered. Every wave of agony darkened his eyes to a dangerous crimson, revealing a vulnerability Isabella had never seen before.
Gently, she massaged his pressure points, desperate to alleviate his suffering. “Just hold on a little longer,” she whispered.
Suddenly, Alexander’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist. His skin burned against hers, their proximity making it seem as though they were leaning into each other—two souls weathering the same storm.
From where she knelt, Isabella noticed the faint tremor in his fingers. He was in excruciating pain, yet he refused to make a sound.
After a few ragged breaths, Alexander’s voice emerged, weak but steady. “I’m sorry… you had to see me like this. You’re a guest, and this… isn’t how I intended to welcome you.”
Isabella shook her head. “Don’t apologize. Everyone gets sick.”
As she studied him—his usual composure shattered, barely clinging to consciousness—she felt an unfamiliar pang in her chest. Alexander had always been the epitome of strength, unshaken even in life-threatening situations. When had he ever allowed himself to be this vulnerable? And even now, he was still worrying about her comfort.
“Don’t move. I have medication for neurogenic headaches. It won’t cure everything, but it should help,” Isabella said, leaving the perfume beside him before grabbing her purse and rushing out.
She had seen these symptoms before—during her time with the Blackwood family. Eleanor Blackwood suffered from similar attacks. The triggers varied—physical, psychological—but the pain was always the same: unbearable. Some patients had even considered ending their lives during an episode.
Years ago, Isabella had invested in the MDH Pharmaceutical Research Institute overseas. They were the only facility in the world developing treatments for this condition. Their “Calming Capsule” couldn’t eradicate the pain entirely, but it provided significant relief. Three years ago, she had secured a supply for Eleanor.
Just as she yanked open her car door, her phone rang. An unknown number.
She answered—only to hear Ethan Blackwood’s voice.
“You blocked me?” His tone dripped with disbelief.
Isabella didn’t have time for this. She hung up.
The phone beeped, and Ethan stared at his screen, fury simmering. If it weren’t for his mother’s condition, he would never have lowered himself to begging Isabella for help.
He dialed again—using a different number this time—determined to reach her.
The incessant ringing grated on her nerves. Finally, she answered, her voice icy. “If you have something to say, make it quick. I don’t have time for games.”
Ethan bristled at her tone but swallowed his pride. “Isabella… do you still have the neurogenic headache medication? I’ll pay whatever you want. My mother—she’s in unbearable pain again. That’s why I’m calling.”
