Chapter 412

Seraphina Sinclair gripped the steering wheel of her Porsche, knuckles turning white as she gathered her resolve. After what felt like an eternity, she finally stepped out into the sterile hospital parking lot. She'd come alone—this was a matter too delicate for witnesses. The fewer people involved, the safer it would be.

The hospital doors swung open with an eerie creak before she even touched them. The empty lobby seemed to swallow her whole, the fluorescent lights humming like a warning.

Her phone vibrated violently in her clutch. The caller ID made her stomach drop—Dr. Nathaniel Whitmore's number flashed on screen, freshly saved from their last disastrous encounter.

"Hello?" Seraphina forced steadiness into her voice while her eyes darted across the vacant reception area.

"Miss Sinclair, I'm in my second-floor office. Don't keep me waiting." The line went dead before she could respond.

Jaw clenched, Seraphina took the stairs two at a time. The office door gave way under her trembling push.

There he sat—Dr. Whitmore lounging on his leather couch in that pristine white coat, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips. Now she understood why her mother was so obsessed with this man. With his chiseled jawline and predatory grace, he was every bit the silver fox the society pages claimed.

"Punctual. I'm impressed." He swirled a glass of amber liquid, the ice clinking like a taunt. "Most heiresses make me wait hours."

"Cut the crap, Nathaniel." Seraphina's manicured nails dug into her palms. "You know exactly why I'm here."

"How is Arabella these days?" He ignored her question, lips curling around her mother's name like a private joke. "I do miss our... sessions."

"Shut your filthy mouth!" Seraphina's cheeks burned with equal parts rage and shame. "My mother is a Sinclair—she's not some cheap fling for you to—"

"Who said I pursued her?" Nathaniel's laugh was all teeth. "Your precious mommy came crawling to me. Begged for it, actually."

The room spun. Seraphina stumbled back, bile rising in her throat. "Just give me the damn pills!"

"Tsk tsk." He produced a stainless steel case from his desk, dangling it just out of reach. "No 'please'? No groveling? Rich girls really are spoiled."

Seraphina lunged—only to grasp air as he yanked the case away.

"You think this is a game?!" she shrieked.

"Everything's a game, princess." Nathaniel's gaze raked over her body like a physical touch. "And right now, you're losing."

The unspoken demand hung between them. Seraphina's breath hitched—she knew that look. Men had been giving it to her since she turned sixteen.

Her fingers moved to the first pearl button of her Chanel dress. "If this is what you want..."

One by one, the buttons gave way until the dress pooled at her feet. The hospital air prickled against her exposed skin, her La Perla lingerie suddenly feeling obscene.

Nathaniel's laughter cracked like a whip. "Christ, is sex all you rich bitches think about? When did I say I wanted to fuck you?"

Humiliation burned through her veins. She scrambled for her dress, but his next words froze her mid-reach.

"Kneel." He pointed to the floor. "Beg properly, and maybe I'll consider it."

"You sick—"

"That sweet mother of yours?" Nathaniel checked his Rolex. "How long until withdrawal kicks in? Two hours? Three?"

Seraphina's knees hit the linoleum with a crack that echoed through the empty hospital.

Meanwhile, fifteen miles away, Isabella Kingsley watched the live feed from her penthouse study, cucumber slices sliding off her face as the scene unfolded.

"Damn it, Nathaniel," she muttered as Seraphina's bare knees met the floor. The security monitor showed every humiliating angle in crisp 4K. "I told you not to improvise."

Her phone buzzed—a text from her brother Christian: Package secured. Moving to phase two.

Isabella's fingers flew across the keyboard: Stay sharp. The viper's nest is waking up.

She didn't need cameras to know what came next. Seraphina would storm out, make a scene, then call her private security team. Exactly on cue, the monitor showed the heiress stumbling to her car, face contorted in rage.

Nathaniel whistled as he drove home, the medicine case safely stowed in his glove compartment. He'd just rounded the corner near his brownstone when headlights blinded him.

The impact came from nowhere—a black Escalade T-boning his Audi with bone-jarring force. Glass exploded as his car spun three times before slamming into a lamppost.

Hands dragged him through the shattered window. Pain exploded across his ribs as steel-toed boots connected with his kidneys.

"Boss says make it hurt," growled a voice above him. Cold metal pressed against his kneecap—a hunting knife catching moonlight.

Nathaniel braced for the slice when a gunshot rang out. His attacker screamed, collapsing like a marionette with cut strings.

Three more shots. Three more thuds.

Through bloodied vision, Nathaniel saw a shadow move with lethal precision—a masked figure dispatching the thugs with terrifying efficiency. The last attacker ran; the figure threw the knife. It found its mark between the man's shoulder blades.

The rescuer hauled Nathaniel into a waiting Maybach. The interior smelled like jasmine and gunpowder.

"Isabella?" Nathaniel coughed, tasting copper. "How—"

"Did you really think I'd let you walk into that viper's nest unprotected?" Isabella Kingsley tossed a medkit onto his lap, her emerald eyes flashing. "What part of 'follow the script' confused you, doctor?"

Nathaniel winced as she dabbed at his forehead wound. "I just wanted to—"

"To what? Humiliate Seraphina for fun?" Isabella's grip tightened on the antiseptic wipe. "That girl may be dumb as a post, but she's got her mother's vicious streak. You're lucky Christian was tailing you."

Outside the car, Christian Ashbourne removed his ski mask, revealing boyish features that belied his lethal skills. "Next time you feel like playing games, doc? Give us a heads-up."

Isabella's phone pinged. She paled reading the message. "They're in Country T already. Both of them."

Christian swore. "Your ex is either the bravest or dumbest bastard alive."

"Or both." Isabella's nails bit into her palms. "If Thaddeus thinks he can waltz into Ward's territory with just Jareth as backup..."

Nathaniel watched something dangerous flicker across her face—something between fury and fear.

"Call Cassius," she ordered Christian. "Tell him to mobilize every contact he has in Country T. And Christian?"

Her brother paused at the door.

"Bring me the black suitcase from the vault."

The men exchanged glances. That case only came out for war.

Isabella's smile didn't reach her eyes. "If Thaddeus wants to play hero? Let's make sure he lives long enough to regret it."