Chapter 331

The moment Alexander Kingsley fell for Isabella Sinclair, he understood one thing.

Isabella was like a coconut—hard and unyielding on the outside, but inside, tender, sincere, and full of warmth.

He had nothing left to offer her, so he clung shamelessly, desperate for every second he could steal with her.

Before, it was her who sought him out, carving out moments just for them.

Now, the tables had turned.

In the end, Isabella couldn’t bring herself to leave the hospital room. She sighed, relenting.

"Don’t misunderstand. I’m not staying because of you. I promised Grandpa and Mari," she said, steadying her voice as she sat up from the bedside. "I’ll sleep in the next room. Call if you need me."

Alexander’s dark eyes burned as he caught her wrist. "Stay here tonight."

"The couch is uncomfortable," she countered, trying to pull away. His grip tightened.

"Then share the bed." His voice was low, coaxing.

"Alexander Kingsley, is it that hard for you to ask nicely?" She wished she had a ruler to measure the depths of his audacity.

"Don’t overthink it. I won’t force you." A pause. "Though I want to."

Heat radiated from his body as he leaned closer.

Want to? Go to hell.

"You reek," she snapped, recoiling and pinching her nose. "I’d rather not suffocate in my sleep."

"Reek?" He sniffed his shirt, frowning. "When I was in the military, I went weeks without a shower. This is nothing."

Her breath hitched.

She knew his past, the scars he carried. No one understood him like she did.

She didn’t despise him. She was just… afraid. Even now, with his walls down, she couldn’t bring herself to step closer.

She’d loved him once, recklessly, like a moth to a flame. But when he’d extinguished that fire, her heart had turned to ash. Reigniting it wasn’t easy.

"I’ll clean up," he said abruptly, moving to rise.

"Don’t. Your stitches can’t get wet." She pried his fingers off her wrist. "I’ll go shower."

Alexander was weaker than he let on. Pride kept him from showing vulnerability. He believed men should be strong, protectors.

Yet here he was, laid low by a head wound. Pathetic.

The sound of running water filled the room. For the first time in years, he felt peace.

Then, memories struck like daggers.

Their marriage. His impatience. Her slow baths, her meticulous skincare, the meals she’d cooked—all wasted on him.

The bathroom door opened.

Isabella emerged, hair wrapped in a towel, skin flushed from the steam.

His breath caught.

"You look better without makeup."

"Stop repeating yourself," she muttered, flopping onto the couch. "And if you can’t compliment me properly, don’t bother. I’m always stunning. A goddess, really."

"You are," he agreed, gazing at her like she hung the moon. "You’ve always been beautiful."

"Always? Prove it."

"Even when you were my wife," he said, voice raw.

She scoffed. "If I was so beautiful, why did you ignore me for three years?"

He shut his mouth. The more he spoke, the deeper he dug his grave.

But he’d chip away at her walls. He knew her heart wasn’t stone—just a coconut.

A knock interrupted them.

"Mr. Kingsley, are you and Mrs. Kingsley awake?" Gordon called.

Before she could answer, Alexander said, "Come in."

The door swung open.

Gordon and two bodyguards staggered in, hauling a massive bed.

"Your order, sir!" Gordon panted, wiping sweat.

Isabella’s jaw dropped. The bed was identical to her custom-made one at home—worth two hundred thousand dollars.

"What is this?" she hissed.

"You won’t sleep on the couch. You won’t share my bed." He shrugged. "So I bought another."

She marched over and punched the mattress.

Damn. Soft.

Outside, winter winds howled. Inside, warmth settled.

Their beds sat side by side. Gordon, ever the opportunist, nudged them closer.

By the time she noticed, it was too late. The men fled, leaving her trapped with her infuriating ex-husband.

She lay stiffly, eyes shut.

Alexander mirrored her, heart racing at her nearness. His fingers inched toward her.

"Don’t," she warned.

He froze.

"Or you’ll lose that hand."

A bead of sweat slid down his temple.

Silence stretched. Eventually, her breathing evened out.

Gently, he laced his fingers with hers.

"Isabella," he whispered. "I love you. Goodnight."

He drifted off, content.

Minutes later, her lashes fluttered open.

"Jerk," she murmured. "Goodnight."

Two days later, Isabella returned to her Skyrim estate.

She needed to check on Myra—and consult Suri about Alexander’s condition.

"Nydia, how is she?" Isabella asked, hugging her tearful cousin.

"Hiding in her room. Won’t eat. Won’t sleep." Nydia trembled. "Evadne, what if she—"

"She’s stronger than you think," Isabella soothed, noting Nydia’s weight loss. "Jason!"

The bodyguard hurried over, dark circles under his eyes. "We’ve been guarding her in shifts. She’s safe."

"I left you to care for Nydia," Isabella snapped. "Look at her! Skin and bones!"

Jason paled. "I’m sorry, Miss Sinclair. Punish me."

"Evadne, no!" Nydia clung to him. "He’s exhausted himself for me!"

Isabella rolled her eyes. "Fine. Your punishment? Take Nydia out. Dinner. Dessert. Don’t come back before dark."

Nydia gaped.

Jason’s lips curved. "Ms. Nydia, you’re stuck with me."

Her heart soared.

Isabella shooed them off, then sought Suri.

"Don’t rush Myra," Suri warned. "She won’t even see your father."

Isabella hesitated. "Suri… I need a favor."

"Favor?" Suri poked her cheek. "Since when do we stand on ceremony?"

Isabella rested her head on Suri’s shoulder. "Your nephew—Chasel Bright. The neurosurgeon. Can you ask him to come?"

Suri blinked. "Oh? Is this a secret romance?"

Isabella groaned.

"You’re eloping? Perfect! A doctor and an heiress—"

"Suri!" Isabella pinched her brow. "Alexander’s injured. I need Chasel’s expertise."

Suri’s smile faded. She still resented Alexander—but he had saved Isabella.

"Suri?"

"I’ll try," Suri sighed. "But Chasel’s… eccentric. If he refuses—"

"Then I’ll call Elvis," Isabella said darkly. "He’ll ship Chasel here if he has to."