Chapter 407

The moment was electric.

Isabella didn't look away from Alexander's piercing gaze—those eyes brimming with raw emotion, shimmering like stars in the night sky.

Her heart raced. How deeply did he love her? Every time their eyes met, his would glisten, as if he were on the verge of tears.

Meanwhile, Victoria and her daughter stood trapped—blocked by Isabella and Alexander in front, swarmed by reporters behind. Their discomfort was palpable, their faces twisted in barely contained fury.

Then, Olivia stepped forward.

With a swift motion, she pulled out her phone and played a recording for all to hear.

Silence fell.

The voice that crackled through the speakers was unmistakable—Victoria's, laced with venom, spewing abuse at the household staff.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

"Oh my God! Someone record this!"

"Is this how a socialite behaves? Even street vendors have more class!"

"This is going viral—no doubt about it!"

Amelia paled. She had tormented the staff too. What if her voice was next?

"Ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on the 'gracious' Victoria in her natural habitat!" Olivia taunted, waving her phone. "Kindness? Generosity? What a joke!"

"You wretched old hag! How dare you set me up!" Victoria shrieked, lunging for the phone.

But the Sinclair family bodyguards moved like a wall, shielding Olivia.

The media captured every second—Victoria's unhinged rage, her humiliation laid bare.

"One recording not enough, my dear?" Olivia smirked. "I've got dozens more. Years of your tyranny, all documented."

She played another.

A sharp slap echoed first.

Then Victoria's shrill voice: "Erica, you useless fool! The Abernathys don't tolerate incompetence!"

Victoria trembled, her face draining of color.

Erica's pained whimper followed. "I'm sorry, madam. I'll clean it up right—Ah!"

The recording cut deep.

Amelia's voice chimed in next, just as cruel. "Erica! Are you deaf? Move!"

Solid proof. Undeniable.

"Who gave you the right to abuse your staff?" Arnold roared, veins bulging. Cassius and Aaron barely restrained him.

"Arnold's terrifying when angry," Elvis muttered, shaking his head.

Isabella's eyes burned with fury, her throat tight.

Alexander pulled her close, his grip firm yet gentle. But the tension in his arms betrayed his own simmering rage.

Victoria and Amelia stood exposed, the media frenzy swelling around them.

"Let's go—now!" Victoria hissed, dragging Amelia toward the exit.

But fate had other plans.

A sudden gust of cold air swept past Isabella and Alexander.

They turned—just in time to see Erica's grandmother, face stone-cold, dump a bowl of scalding risotto over Victoria's head.

A scream tore through the air.

Victoria writhed, her scalp burning. The stench clung to her, humiliation complete.

Amelia, splattered too, gagged violently.

The crowd froze. Even Isabella and Alexander were stunned.

The frail old woman, bedridden days ago from grief, now stood tall—her frail frame radiating unshakable strength.

"Get out!" she snarled, clutching the empty bowl like a weapon. "You disgrace my granddaughter's memory!"

Her voice cracked but held steel. "I've lost everything. I won't hesitate to crack your skulls open!"

Victoria and Amelia fled, their grand exit reduced to a狼狈 retreat.

The reporters chased after them, hungry for more scandal.

Despite the chaos, Erica's funeral proceeded with dignity.

Her grandmother collapsed afterward, overwhelmed. The Sinclairs rushed her to the hospital, ensuring she received the best care.

In the lounge, Isabella sat stiffly, her expression dark.

They had won this battle. But the recordings of Victoria and Amelia's cruelty still haunted her, making her tremble with rage.

Cassius and Arnold handled damage control with the press. Though Alexander had already warned the media, precautions were necessary.

Aaron wanted to stay but duty called—cases piled up at the precinct.

Only the young couple—Jason and Nydia—Elvis, and Alexander remained with Isabella.

"Is the AC on? It's freezing," Isabella murmured, rubbing her arms.

Nydia frowned. "It's not. Are you okay? I'll get you a blanket."

Before she could move, Alexander shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over Isabella's shoulders. His touch was tender, reverent.

She looked up, meeting his gaze—those deep eyes searching hers, as if peering into her soul.

"I understand," he whispered. "I understand you."

Simple words. Yet they unraveled her.

"I'm just cold," she lied, voice cracking.

Alexander pulled her into his arms, enveloping her completely. "Better?"

She shook her head slightly, melting into him.

"You'll never be cold again," he vowed, voice thick with emotion. "Not while I'm here."

He knew Erica's death still tormented her. Healing would take time.

But he had all the patience in the world.

Watching them, Elvis and the young couple exhaled in relief.

Nydia, moved to tears, suddenly felt warmth envelop her hand.

Jason laced his fingers with hers, his touch tentative.

Her cheeks flushed pink.

They stood there, hearts pounding, hoping this moment would never end.

Later, Isabella turned to Alexander. "Olivia can't stay at Windermere after this. If you both agree, I want her at Skyrim—working at Silverlake Harbor or retiring there. I won't risk her safety in Elmsworth."

Alexander nodded. "I was thinking the same. Skyrim is perfect."

"But she might refuse," Isabella teased. "She adores her godson too much."

Alexander's lips curved. "She won't. Home is where I am—and where you are, Mrs. Kingsley."

"Who's Mrs. Kingsley?" Isabella huffed, turning away.

Alexander chuckled, ruffling her hair.

Elvis, unable to stomach the sweetness, slipped out for a smoke.

Then Alexander's phone rang.

He glanced at the screen, tension flickering in his eyes. "I need to take this."

Isabella watched him leave, her chest tightening.

Outside, Alexander answered. Jareth's voice crackled through. "Everything's set. When do you leave?"

"Tonight. My jet."

"Take mine. Save your fuel!"

"Yours is slower."

"Damn, you're ruthless!" Jareth laughed, then sobered. "Did you tell Isabella?"

"I can't." Alexander's fist clenched. "She'd insist on coming. Country T is too dangerous."

"No one loves their wife like you do."

"No one loves their wife like we do," Alexander corrected, smiling faintly.

Once his enemies were dealt with, he prayed for peace—for Jareth, for his sister, and most of all, for Isabella and himself.

He lingered by the window, smoking, lost in thought.

Then—light footsteps.

A familiar scent.

Isabella pinned him against the wall, her lips inches from his.

Desire flared in Alexander's veins.

But before he could kiss her, she snatched his cigarette, took a drag—and coughed violently.

"Idiot," he chided, pinching her flushed cheek. "You don't smoke."

"It's disgusting!" She stomped the cigarette out. "You and Elvis are human, not chimneys! I'm putting anti-smoking ads on loop at home!"

Alexander tossed the rest of his pack away.

"I'll quit," he vowed, pulling her close. "For you."

Her eyes softened. "Just cut back. I'm not unreasonable."

"No. I'm done." He cupped her face. "But—can I still laze around your place all day?"

Isabella burst out laughing. "What a dumb question!"

Alexander adored her laugh. He'd play the fool forever to hear it.

"When do you leave?" she asked suddenly.

He checked his watch. "Now."

"Need me to see you off?"

"Rest. You've had a long day."

"Alexander."

She rose on her toes, kissing him—soft at first, then deeper.

He groaned, pulling her closer, savoring her.

When they parted, breathless, he smirked. "You're getting better at this."

Isabella punched his chest lightly, then smoothed his tie.

"Come back soon," she whispered. "Or I won't leave the door unlocked."