Chapter 276

The afternoon sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Isabella Sinclair's office, casting long shadows across her meticulously organized desk. Her fingers traced over the banquet layout with a precision that surpassed even her previous work for Evelyn Prescott's wedding.

Back then, her dedication had been purely professional—Evelyn was a crucial business partner. This time, it was personal. Seraphina Lockwood was family.

"Miss Sinclair, you've been pushing yourself too hard. Three sleepless nights in a row isn't healthy," murmured Oliver Bennett, her ever-loyal assistant, setting down a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. The constant caffeine intake worried him.

"I can't stop now. The venue is ready, but Seraphina's gown isn't finished yet." Isabella set aside the documents, rubbing her throbbing temples.

Most women her age would be jet-setting across Europe or indulging in romantic escapades. But here she was, drowning in spreadsheets and performance reports, strategizing ways to elevate the Sinclair Grand's reputation.

Strong as she was, she wasn't invincible. Exhaustion clung to her like a second skin.

"Arrange the car. I need to visit Henri Delacroix's atelier."

"Is this about finalizing Seraphina's dress?"

"Yes. If we don't work through the night, we'll miss the deadline."

Oliver sighed, sympathy tightening his chest.

Just then, his phone buzzed.

A WhatsApp notification from Dominic Blackwood—guest list for Seraphina's birthday gala, with a terse note: Forward to Miss Sinclair.

Oliver scanned the names. The first few entries made his blood boil: the three Chambers brothers.

Memories of Nathaniel Sterling throwing cash at him, that vulgar woman sneering at Ms. Lockwood—rage burned behind his eyes.

"Oliver, is there an issue with the list? You look furious," Isabella remarked, sharp gaze catching his tension.

"There's something you should know."

He recounted the incident from that night, omitting Nathaniel's humiliation.

He'd wanted to handle it himself, but realized this wasn't just some petty squabble.

He was just an assistant. Powerless against Nathaniel's influence.

If that woman attended the same university as Ms. Lockwood, the harassment wouldn't stop. He needed Isabella's intervention.

Isabella's delicate brows knitted together, her usually warm eyes turning glacial.

"That woman is nothing but Nathaniel's discarded plaything. How dare she lay a finger on my sister?"

Her palm slammed against the desk. "She won't get away with this!"

Oliver almost smiled.

"That wench acts bold because she thinks Nathaniel shields her." Isabella's almond-shaped eyes glinted dangerously. "If she knew Seraphina has the entire Sinclair empire behind her, she'd be groveling for mercy. Let's see if Mr. Sterling dares defend her then."

"So... you'll deal with her?" Oliver ventured.

Isabella scoffed, swirling her juice. "She's not worth my time. When you strike a dog, you aim for its master. This debt falls on Nathaniel."

"But Miss Sinclair, Nathaniel might not know—"

"I don't care." She cut him off, voice razor-sharp. "I'm vicious when it comes to protecting mine. Ignorance isn't an excuse. Not with me."

That evening, Isabella dismissed Oliver and drove alone to Henri's atelier.

"Alea! The muse graces my humble studio!" Henri greeted her with a theatrical bow, grinning.

She'd thought her mentor being a Sinclair heiress under the alias Haron was impressive enough.

But Alea? That revelation had stunned her.

In fashion circles, Alea and Haron were legends.

"Alright, enough teasing. How do I make it up to you?" Isabella looped an arm around Henri's waist.

"Visit more often," Henri pouted. "Don't just appear when you need favors."

"Please, I'm not that heartless." She flicked Henri's nose. "Once this is over, we'll vacation wherever you want. My treat."

Henri's eyes sparkled. "You're the best!"

No time for small talk—Isabella marched straight to the studio's heart.

A mannequin stood center-stage, draped in a nearly completed gown of crimson and onyx chiffon. The bold contrast was mesmerizing, exuding regal elegance.

Under the spotlights, it looked divine.

Henri sighed dreamily. "This belongs in a celestial wardrobe. Even fairies would envy this masterpiece."

"You've stared at it for weeks. Not tired yet?" Isabella trailed her fingers over the delicate fabric, pride glowing in her eyes.

"Never." Henri admired the craftsmanship. "This 'liquid gold' silk chiffon—three washes, nine boils, eighteen sun-dryings. A single bolt takes a year to perfect. Only you could source something this exquisite. The market's current stock pales in comparison. This could auction for millions."

"It's from my private collection. Only the best for family."

Adjusting the sleeves, Isabella prepared to put the final touches on Seraphina's birthday masterpiece.

Downstairs, a sleek Maybach glided into the courtyard.

Richard Langley exited first, moving to open the door for Alexander Kingsley.

Spotting the La Voiture Noire parked prominently, he whistled.

"Mr. Kingsley! Mrs. Sinclair's here!"

Alexander's pulse jumped. He stepped out swiftly.

That unmistakable bumper sticker confirmed it—Isabella's car.

A boyish grin tugged at his lips. He checked his reflection in the window, straightening his Windsor knot.

Richard bit back a laugh. The usually unflappable Alexander Kingsley looked like a teenager prepping for prom.

"How do I look?" Alexander asked casually.

Richard gave a thumbs-up. "Sharp, sir."

Alexander frowned. "Just sharp?"

Realization dawned.

If he looked impeccable, Isabella would feel less guilty—less concerned.

But if he appeared worn out...

Ah. Clever.

At the entrance, an assistant blocked them.

"Henri is with a VIP. No interruptions."

Alexander's gaze hardened. "Is the VIP her mentor?"

The assistant blinked. "How did—"

"Because I'm here for her." He stepped closer. "I'm Mrs. Sinclair's husband. Surely a wife can't deny her husband entry?"

The assistant's lips thinned. "Mr. Kingsley, with all due respect—your engagement to Arabella Sterling was publicized months ago. Now you're claiming Henri's mentor is your wife? That's bold."

Arabella's name soured Alexander's mood.

Before he could retort, a sharp voice cut in.

"Alexander! What nonsense are you spouting?"

Henri stormed down the stairs, disbelief etched across her face.

"Your mentor, Isabella Sinclair, was my wife." He paused. "Once."

Henri gaped. "You're delusional. My mentor wouldn't waste a second on you!"

Alexander's jaw tightened.

Why had Isabella loved him?

That childhood rescue—she'd only been eleven. Could a child's gratitude really evolve into lifelong devotion?

"Henri, he's telling the truth."

All three turned.

Isabella leaned against the balcony railing, arms crossed, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Forgive me. Everyone makes mistakes." Her smirk was razor-edged. "Who hasn't married the wrong man?"