Chapter 312

The Ashbourne household erupted in joyous chaos when Isabella Sinclair made her unexpected return.

As Isabella's birth mother, Eleanor remained the epitome of composure among the three matriarchs. Years had passed since anyone witnessed her shed a tear. Yet now, her eyes shimmered with restrained emotion at her daughter's homecoming.

Her stepmothers, Victoria and Arabella, displayed no such restraint. They enveloped Isabella in tearful embraces so fervent one might mistake Eleanor for the stepmother.

"Enough! Give the girl some air!"

Sebastian Sinclair stood nearby, his handsome features contorted with impatience. "My turn now!"

The family exchanged exasperated glances.

With reluctant sighs, Victoria and Arabella released their hold.

Sebastian swooped in, clutching Isabella like a drowning man to driftwood, his sobs outpacing the women's. "My precious girl! Did marriage make you forget your old man? Not a single visit in all this time! Such ingratitude!"

The room collectively rolled their eyes.

Watching her father's theatrics, Evelyn Sinclair buried her face in her hands.

At least this embarrassment happened behind closed doors.

"Dad, I never forgot you," Isabella soothed, patting his back. "Alexander's been swamped with the election campaign. I only told him I was coming after boarding the plane. Don't be cross - I brought you that bone china set you've been coveting."

The family watched with sympathetic smiles. Years ago, Isabella had defied her father to marry Alexander Kingsley, the congressman a decade her senior. Love had carried her overseas, leaving fewer opportunities for family visits.

None could have predicted how the Ashbourne daughter would blossom abroad. Second only to the Queen in public admiration, her social standing now surpassed even Evelyn's - a fact that filled her sister with quiet pride.

"Where's my gift then?" Sebastian's tears vanished as curiosity took hold, transforming him into a child pacified by candy.

"I gave it to your secretary upon arrival, along with Arabella's birthday jewelry." Isabella turned warm eyes to Arabella. "Happy birthday."

"Your presence is gift enough," Arabella sniffled, ever the sentimental one.

"And what did that husband of yours send?" Sebastian demanded, still unsatisfied.

"Father, enough." Evelyn fixed him with a withering stare. "Your collection could stock a museum. What's the point of hoarding treasures you can't take with you?"

"You youngsters understand nothing!" Sebastian pouted.

Evelyn smirked. "You're just greedy. In another era, you'd be the corrupt official taking bribes."

"And what would you be?"

Chin lifted, Evelyn declared, "The moralist exposing corruption at every turn!"

Laughter filled the room.

"Where's our brother? Shouldn't he be here by now?" Evelyn asked.

Nathaniel checked his watch. "I'll call him."

Meanwhile, mere blocks from the Windsor Estates...

Camille Dubois gripped the wheel of her pink Ferrari, Bluetooth headset flashing as she waited at the light.

"Get me those Paris Fashion Week designs now or consider our partnership terminated! If they ever want to showcase in New York again, they'll find every door slammed shut!"

The light turned green. Fuming, Camille floored the accelerator.

Her Ferrari shot forward like a pink bullet.

At that moment, a discreet Mercedes sped around the opposite corner. Both vehicles took their turns too sharply, too fast.

"Merde!"

Distracted by her call, Camille noticed the oncoming sedan too late. She slammed the brakes, tires screeching against asphalt.

The Mercedes driver reacted simultaneously. The collision was inevitable.

Impact.

Camille's body jerked violently as airbags deployed, smacking her in the face. The windshield cracked but held - sparing her from potential disfigurement.

"Quelle horreur!" She shoved the door open, rubbing her neck as she stormed out.

Her limited-edition pink Ferrari now resembled crumpled tissue paper.

"Mon bébé!" Camille wailed, indifferent to her ruined hairstyle.

The Mercedes fared no better, hood crumpled and engine smoking.

Dominic Blackwood emerged, coughing.

"Are you blind? You saw my car and still plowed right into—" Camille's tirade died mid-sentence.

The man before her was Adonis incarnate - chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, narrow waist, and an ass that could grace magazine covers. Her inner fangirl short-circuited.

Wait.

Why did he seem familiar?

"Miss, I can drive just fine," Dominic rasped, massaging his neck. "What I can't do is prevent idiots from ramming into me. Were you in such a hurry to meet your maker?"

"Me? You're the one who—" Camille's protest faltered as she noticed her stiletto-clad feet. The law clearly prohibited both heels and phones while driving.

"You crossed the solid line!" she accused instead.

"Let the police determine fault. I don't have time for this." Dominic produced a business card. "Contact my office with the repair bills."

"You think you can just dump this mess on me? I'm in a hurry too!" Camille flung the card back. "This could be fake for all I know! Some well-dressed scam artist!"

"Scam artist?" Dominic's laugh held no humor. "If I'm a scammer, then honesty is extinct. I'm leaving."

Camille seized his arm, eyes blazing. "You wrecked my brand-new Ferrari! You're not walking away!"

Dominic exhaled sharply. Time was precious, especially with family waiting. He extracted a black card from his wallet. "Take this. No PIN. Fix your car."

Camille stared at the offered card, humiliation burning her cheeks. "You think your petty cash can fix a limited-edition Ferrari? Are you simple?"

"Then buy a new one. The limit should suffice."

As Dominic turned to leave, he suddenly gasped.

Camille had yanked his navy tie, pulling him nose-to-nose. His breath hitched at their sudden proximity - closer than he'd been to any woman besides Evelyn in thirty years.

The swell of her breasts beneath that red dress brushed his shirt. He fixed his gaze rigidly on her eyes, like a monk resisting temptation.

"What are you playing at?" His voice roughened.

With a haughty sniff, Camille produced her own black card, tapping it against his cheek. "I've enough here to support you into retirement, petit garçon."

Dominic's pulse stuttered inexplicably.

"Don't flatter yourself with your dirty money. My mentor's a billionaire's daughter and world-renowned designer. She could buy you ten times over without breaking a sweat!"

Something clicked in Dominic's mind. That description sounded... familiar.

Finished, Camille tossed the card at his shoes, lifted her chin, and strutted back to her battered Ferrari.

Dominic watched the pink car vanish into the night, lips quirking.

"Pink. How gauche."