Chapter 124

The bar pulsed with life despite the late hour.

Isabella Sinclair sat alone in a dimly corner, her simple sportswear a stark contrast to the women around her—bare-backed, glittering, faces painted with heavy makeup. She'd been waiting too long when the stench of alcohol hit her.

She glanced up.

Nathan Prescott slid onto the stool beside her, his cologne thick enough to choke on.

"Isabella," he drawled, lips curling into a smirk. "Still gorgeous. Still irresistible." His gaze raked over her, shameless, lingering.

She recoiled, skin crawling.

Once, she'd craved his sweet lies, his sculpted body, the way he'd made her feel in bed.

Now? Just the sight of him made her stomach turn. How had she ever wanted this man?

He wasn't fit to lick Alexander Kingsley's shoes.

"When did you get back?" she hissed, voice low. "Why are you here?"

"To see you." He leaned in, breath hot against her ear. "With you, I feel... home."

His hand slid up her thigh, fingers digging in. When she didn't stop him, he grew bolder, tugging at her waistband. "Next time, wear a skirt. This is annoying."

Isabella grabbed his wrist, nails biting in. "What do you want?"

"You," he purred. Then laughed. "And money."

"I paid you off when we ended things!" Her voice cracked with fury.

"Gambling's a bitch. That cash didn't last." His grin turned vicious. "But you? Engaged to the CEO of Imperial Entertainment? Saw it in the papers. Bet your perfect wedding budget could spare some change."

The threat hung between them.

Isabella's pulse roared. "Tell Alexander whatever you want. He loves me. He won't care about my past. Everyone has exes."

"True." Nathan sipped her drink, smug. "But how many exes knocked you up before marriage? How many left you with a kid you dumped?"

Ice flooded her veins.

That baby girl—gone before she'd held her. "You bastard," she whispered. "I couldn't abort. The risk—"

"You begged me not to pull out." He smirked, draping an arm over her shaking shoulders. "That kid tied us together. Now? She's my ticket back into your life."

"How much?" Her voice was dead.

"Fifty grand."

"My family's broke."

"Then ask Kingsley." Nathan's eyes gleamed. "Rich bastard like him? Pocket change. He spoils you. He'll pay."

Isabella's fists clenched. Then—calm. A plan formed.

She leaned into him, lips brushing his ear. "Alexander's leaving me."

Nathan jerked back. "What?"

"He found someone else." A tear slid down her cheek. "I'm losing him. I can't give you money—I might not even have a home soon."

Panic flashed in his eyes. No Kingsley money meant no payout. No payout meant no ticket back to his cushy life abroad.

"No way to fix it?" he demanded.

"Maybe if she... disappeared." Isabella's gaze dropped, lashes hiding the venom in her eyes.

Nathan made a slashing motion across his throat.

"Help me," she whispered, fingers tracing his jaw. "Make sure Alexander marries me. Then?" She smiled, slow, sweet. "Fifty grand? Try half a million."

His breath hitched. Greed lit his face as he shoved her against the wall, hand fumbling with her zipper. "Who is she?"

Next day. Imperial Entertainment HQ.

Alexander Kingsley stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, cold coffee forgotten in his hand. The skyline of New York sprawled before him, glittering, indifferent.

16:50.

Gordon stormed in, crumpling a sheet of paper. "This is bullshit! Since when does an actress with zero leadership skills get named Vice Chair? Elspeth's a glorified gold-digger! If she qualifies, my dog could run this company!"

"Frederic gave her the Westguard deal to grease the wheels," Alexander said tonelessly. The coffee tasted like ash.

"After everything you've done—" Gordon's face darkened. "Your brother can't even walk without help! How's he fit to lead? And your father? Backing Elspeth just to spite you? What kind of man sabotages his own son?"

"Enough." Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose. "We don't discuss this outside this room."

"What's the play, sir?"

Alexander's jaw tightened. "I wanted to wait. But if Frederic forces my hand?" He exhaled. "War it is."

His phone buzzed. Jareth. Again.

He almost ignored it—until the caller ID flashed: Evadne Prescott.

He answered.

Jareth's voice was ragged. "She dumped me. For real. Knife to my throat, man. It's over."

Alexander's lips curved. "Good."