Chapter 487

The crimson sports car screeched to a halt outside the neon-lit nightclub, its tires leaving streaks of burnt rubber on the asphalt.

Isabella Sinclair stepped out, her toned legs unfolding gracefully from the low-slung vehicle. The moonlight glinted off her crystal-studded stilettos, their sharp heels like weapons poised to strike. Her form-fitting mermaid gown clung to every curve, a silent declaration of lethal elegance.

"Ms. Sinclair. He's still inside. I've been watching him." A subordinate emerged from the shadows, voice hushed.

With a cold, calculated gaze, Isabella twisted her raven-black hair into an effortless updo, securing it with a silver hairpin adorned with a blood-red ruby. The motion was fluid, hypnotic—her subordinate barely blinked.

"Stay alert. Be ready to clean up."

Inside, the nightclub pulsed with shadows and strobe lights, a symphony of chaos.

Isabella clenched her jaw, weaving through the drunken crowd until her eyes locked onto her target—Alexander Kingsley, seated at the far end of the bar. Every step closer sent her heartbeat into overdrive, the noise around her fading into white noise.

She adjusted her hair, fingers brushing the hidden weapon. Just a little closer—

Then, pain exploded in her wrist.

The world spun.

Her back slammed against a table, the impact knocking the air from her lungs.

Alexander's reflexes were inhuman. His rough grip imprisoned her wrist, his other hand crushing her throat, tightening with terrifying precision.

Years as a top-tier agent had honed his instincts to razor sharpness. Even the faintest whisper of danger triggered him.

Now, pinned beneath him, Isabella gasped for air, tears welling in her eyes.

Recognition flickered in Alexander's gaze.

He loosened his grip.

Isabella coughed, tears streaking her flushed cheeks. Around them, whispers rose—some mistook the scene for a lovers' quarrel, others for violence.

"Damn, dude looks sharp but he's trash. Public assault?"

"Mind your business. They look like they're into it."

Alexander's expression darkened.

"You hurt me," Isabella rasped, struggling to sit up, her spine screaming in protest.

"Occupational hazard," Alexander muttered, his arm hooking around her waist and hauling her upright in one smooth motion.

Instinctively, she clung to him, her breath warm against his neck. But Alexander only smirked, icy amusement in his eyes. "Ms. Sinclair, aside from my sister, no woman gets this close. You’ve got nerve."

"You're very protective of her." Isabella's lips curved into a practiced, dazzling smile. "She must be stunning."

His gaze lingered on her face, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. The resemblance was uncanny—if she dressed the same, styled her hair the same, even he might mistake her for his sister.

A cold smirk tugged at his lips as he tilted her chin up. "In terms of beauty, you rival her."

Her pulse stuttered at his smile. "But there are levels, aren't there?"

"Of course," he said without hesitation. "My sister is more beautiful."

Was he clueless or just obsessed with his sister? Yet his bluntness didn’t disgust her.

"What are you doing here?" Alexander narrowed his eyes. "You weren’t looking for me, were you?"

Isabella traced a finger down his chest, voice light. "Mister, you must believe fate keeps bringing us together."

Alexander raised a brow. "How lucky for me."

"Thank you for helping me last time." Her fingers toyed with his tie, body pressing closer, eyes shimmering with something dangerous. "I’ve been wanting to repay you."

His gaze deepened, scrutinizing her like a lie detector. But for once, he sensed truth in her words.

"How do you plan to repay me, huh?" His lips curved, inching closer.

Her heart hammered. "Whatever you want. I’m yours tonight."

Then—

The scene shifted.

Isabella stared, stunned.

Alexander’s idea of repayment?

Jenga.

"One block each. Loser drinks three shots." He rested his chin on his hand, carefully stacking the tower. The bartender slid three bottles of premium whiskey onto their table.

Isabella gaped. This wasn’t part of her plan.

"Too strong for a lady? Fine. You drink one, I’ll take three." His eyes gleamed like amber under moonlight. "Ms. Sinclair, game on?"

She exhaled sharply. "A promise is a promise."

The game began.

Alexander was ruthless. Jenga had been his childhood pastime, played endlessly with his sister during downtime at the agency.

Isabella lost the first rounds miserably, downing four shots that burned like fire. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her stomach twisting in agony.

Years of sacrificing herself for Nathan Prescott’s ambitions had left her body battered, her spirit hollow. She’d drowned in alcohol, traded dignity for survival—sometimes drinking until she woke up in a hospital bed.

Her body was a canvas of hidden scars.

"You lost again." Alexander swirled his empty glass, grinning.

Gritting her teeth, she poured another shot. Just as she lifted it, his hand covered the rim.

"Can’t handle it? I’ll take this one for you."

"No." She snatched the glass back. "A bet’s a bet."

She downed it in one go.

Alexander’s smirk softened. Stubborn. Unyielding.

Just like his sister.

The next rounds, he let her win.

"I won!" Isabella threw her hands up, laughing like a carefree girl.

Alexander watched, transfixed. For a second, he saw his sister—bright, untouchable, before life hardened her.

"Evadne," he thought bitterly. "If only you’d stayed that innocent."

"Your turn." Isabella’s breath caught.

A tear?

In Alexander’s eyes?

Gone before she could be sure.

"You won. That’s nice." He clinked his glass against hers. "I hope you always win."

He drank deeply, liquor trailing down his jaw.

Her chest ached. No one had ever wished her victory before. Only demands, control, exploitation.

Her mind blanked.

Then—

Her hands were on his shoulders, her lips crashing against his.

Alexander’s breath hitched. His fingers tangled in her hair, deftly removing the silver hairpin.

Meanwhile, her cleanup crew waited outside until dawn.

No sign of Isabella.

Her phone was dead.

Panicked, Harvey stormed in half an hour later, kicking the subordinate. "You lost her?! A damn guard dog would’ve done better!"

"I—I couldn’t follow! She said she’d handle him alone!"

Harvey paled. Alexander was a lethal agent. Isabella stood no chance.

"I’m reporting this to Mr. Prescott. If anything happens to her, you’re dead."

——

After the Prescott family left, Jason insisted on staying at Silverlake Harbor with Nydia, despite his injuries.

Emeric locked himself in his room, refusing even Daniel’s comfort.

By afternoon, he still hadn’t emerged.

"Chairman Ashbourne needs space," Daniel sighed. "Nydia’s situation hit him hard. But maybe... this is for the best. He might not oppose Jason and Nydia anymore."

Evadne’s eyes welled. "Mr. Lyle, if you can, please... sway him in Jason’s favor."

"I’ll try."

Once Daniel left, Evadne’s gaze turned glacial. "Nathan and Matthew will pull every string to free Byron. We need to block them."

"Leave it to me." Cassius clenched his fists. "Byron won’t have peace in custody."

"And Bertha." Evadne’s voice was ice. "She struck Jason. Handed Byron the knife. If fate won’t punish her, I will."

"Trust me, not fate." Cassius pulled her close. "Write her ending. I’ll make it happen."

Then—

"Cassius! Has Thaddeus lost his damn mind?!" Arnold’s roar cut through the air.

He froze, realizing Evadne was there. Too late.

"Arnold." She stepped forward, eyes blazing. "What happened to Thaddeus? Tell me!"

"He’s been waiting outside our house all night!"