Chapter 296

The morning light barely touched the windows when Isabella stirred from her restless sleep.

Her eyes flew open as she jolted upright, heart pounding against her ribs.

The room smelled distinctly masculine - a mix of sandalwood and something undeniably expensive. "Sebastian's place?"

A sharp pain lanced through her temples as fragmented memories surfaced.

She recalled shouting at Nathaniel last night. The rest was a black void, like scenes deleted from a movie reel.

Her fingers dug into the silk sheets before she flung them aside and marched downstairs.

In the kitchen, Sebastian stood bathed in golden sunlight, sleeves rolled up as he arranged breakfast with meticulous precision.

The sight was almost domestic. Almost intimate.

"Mr. Lockwood."

He turned, those hazel eyes warming instantly. "Morning, Isabella. How's your head?"

"Where are my shoes?" Her voice could freeze hell over.

"Still Sebastian, I see." His mouth twitched as he wiped his hands. "You collapsed from exhaustion and hypoglycemia last night. My guest room was the nearest option."

"I need to leave."

She wasn't some naive debutante. But staying at a virtual stranger's penthouse crossed every boundary she'd ever set.

The toast popped up. Sebastian ignored it. "At least eat something."

"Not hungry." Her phone buzzed with Oliver's caller ID. "Yes?"

"We're outside Lockwood's tower." Her brother's voice held barely restrained fury. "All of us."

Isabella groaned, imagining the fleet of black SUVs blocking Manhattan traffic. "This isn't necessary."

"Not necessary?" Adrian's voice crackled through the speaker. "You vanished for twelve hours with that—"

"I'm coming out." She hung up abruptly.

Sebastian blocked the doorway. "Let me explain to them."

"Move." Her stiletto hovered dangerously close to his Italian loafers. "Unless you want broken toes with your breakfast."

Outside, the scene was worse than she'd imagined. Three brothers, two bodyguards, and a very agitated assistant formed a human barricade.

"Did he touch you?" Oliver gripped her shoulders, scanning for bruises.

"Please." She rolled her eyes. "Like I'd let some Wall Street playboy—"

"Ms. Sinclair." Sebastian appeared behind her, smiling at the glowering semicircle. "Gentlemen."

Adrian reached for his handcuffs. "One wrong move, Lockwood."

"Enough!" Isabella shoved between them. "I'm fine. Let's go."

But Sebastian wasn't finished. "Regardless of what you think of me," his gaze locked onto hers, "my feelings haven't changed."

The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

Oliver stepped forward, all six-foot-three of him radiating menace. "We need to talk. Alone."

Inside, the penthouse's marble floors echoed with tension.

Sebastian poured coffee neither of them touched. "Ask whatever you—"

"Cut the crap." Oliver's knuckles whitened around his phone. "My sister doesn't faint. She doesn't stay at men's penthouses. Explain."

"Your precious Nathaniel called last night." Sebastian's cup clinked sharply against its saucer. "Whatever he said shattered her. She collapsed mid-sentence."

A muscle jumped in Oliver's jaw. "And you didn't call us?"

"Would you have believed me?" Sebastian adjusted his cufflinks. "Or assumed I'd drugged her?"

"Listen carefully." Oliver stood, looming over the seated man. "Flirt with her all you want. But if you ever—and I mean ever—take advantage of her again, the Sinclair name won't protect you."

Sebastian smiled as the elevator doors closed. "We'll see who needs protection, Mr. Sinclair."

His phone buzzed immediately. "Report."

"Two updates, sir." His assistant's voice crackled. "First, Ms. Arabella returns from Paris tonight."

"And?"

"Mr. Nathaniel's medical records show a recent hospitalization. Critical condition. Elmsworth Medical Center."

Sebastian's grin turned feral. "How... unfortunate."

"Shall we arrange an accident?"

"Patience." He traced the rim of his untouched coffee cup. "I want him to see Isabella in my arms first. Then..." His thumb sliced across his throat.

The line went dead. Outside, Manhattan glittered indifferently. Somewhere in its maze of streets, Nathaniel Kingsley was living on borrowed time.