Chapter 70

The voice was both familiar and strange, cutting off abruptly. Alexander Kingsley's gaze locked onto the man before him, moving with an almost spectral swiftness. Dominic Sinclair was making aggressive moves, each punch sharp and lightning-fast, clearly aiming to take him down hard.

Alexander's brows furrowed as his large frame dodged twice.

"Not bad," Dominic taunted, eyes narrowing mockingly. "You still got some fight in you."

Alexander exhaled sharply, his eyes glinting with intensity.

He had left the military years ago. Though he still trained occasionally, it had been a long time since he'd been in a real fight.

All he had left were his instincts and muscle memory.

After a few exchanges, something struck him—Dominic's fighting style was eerily familiar.

Those moves... they bore the distinct mark of elite military combat training.

Who the hell was this guy?

"Ah!" A sudden kick to his abdomen sent Alexander stumbling back, pain flaring through him. But he didn't fall—just staggered, teeth gritted.

Damn, this bastard was strong.

"Mr. Kingsley!"

Sebastian Lockwood gasped, rushing forward to steady him. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Alexander muttered, suppressing a cough.

"You son of a bitch!" Sebastian's face flushed with rage. "You dare lay a hand on him? I'll kill you!"

"Sebastian! Get back!"

Too late.

Sebastian lunged recklessly, but Dominic sidestepped effortlessly, knocking him out with a single brutal punch.

Alexander's fury ignited. "I know you. Who the hell are you?"

Dominic smirked, tilting his head.

They did know each other. Same academy, same training. But they'd never crossed paths outside of drills.

"You wanna know who matters most to me?" Dominic took slow, deliberate steps forward, grinning darkly. "Fine. I'll tell you."

He leaned in, voice dripping with malice.

"It's your ex-wife."

Alexander's pupils constricted, his fists trembling with barely restrained rage.

"You're dead."

His muscles coiled beneath his tailored suit, radiating lethal intent.

Then he struck—fast, brutal, every movement honed by years of discipline.

Dominic's expression darkened. Even out of practice, Alexander was still dangerous. His agility defied his polished exterior.

Like some goddamn action hero.

The fight raged, blow after blow exchanged. But Alexander was flagging—his limbs heavy from alcohol, his vision swimming. It was a miracle he was still standing.

Then Dominic landed a crushing hit, sending him crashing to the ground, pain exploding through his back.

"Bastard," Dominic spat, raising his foot to deliver another kick—

"Touch him again, and you won't leave Elmsworth alive."

Nathaniel Whitmore appeared like a storm, gun drawn and aimed squarely at Dominic's head.

Dominic froze.

"Don't move," Nathaniel warned, finger tense on the trigger. "I will shoot."

"Nathaniel, stand down!" Alexander rasped, clutching his ribs.

"Are you kidding me?" Nathaniel's voice shook with fury. "He nearly killed you! One wrong move, and I swear, the Whitmores will make you disappear!"

Dominic didn't flinch. He took another step.

"Nathaniel, run!" Alexander shouted.

The gun fired.

But the bullet didn't hit Dominic.

"Ugh—"

Isabella Sinclair staggered forward, arms wrapped tightly around Dominic. The bullet struck her shoulder.

Even though it wasn't lethal, the impact was brutal.

She trembled, sweat beading on her forehead, but she held on—refusing to let go.

Alexander's heart plummeted.

His wife—his ex-wife—had just taken a bullet for the man trying to kill him.

Not a glance his way. No hesitation.

She'd chosen.

Betrayal burned through him like acid.

"Isabella!"

Dominic's hands came away bloody. Rage and anguish twisted his features.

"You bastard!"

Nathaniel paled, the gun slipping from his fingers.

Isabella had moved too fast. He hadn't meant to—

"Isabella," Dominic choked out, clutching her.

She leaned into him, voice a whisper. "If you ever cared about me... leave. Now. Or I swear, I'll never forgive you."

Dominic hesitated, but her glare was final.

With a last, agonized look, he vanished into the night.

Isabella exhaled shakily, then turned—ignoring her own injury—to check on Alexander.

"Mr. Whitmore, call an ambulance. Now."

"But you're hurt!" Nathaniel protested, guilt-ridden.

"I'll live," she gritted out, already kneeling beside Alexander.

"Stop playing the hero," Alexander snarled, pushing her away. "Get lost."

"Not until I know you're okay."

Her hands were steady as she examined his leg. Bruises marred his face, blood smeared his lips, his pristine suit ruined.

Her heart ached. Dominic had gone too far.

"I said leave!" Alexander roared.

"No! You have old injuries—I need to make sure!"

He stared at her, baffled.

How did she know about that?

The ambulance arrived, whisking Alexander and Sebastian away.

Thankfully, the damage was superficial. No fractures, no torn muscles. Isabella finally let herself breathe.

At the hospital, Nathaniel hovered outside her treatment room, frantic.

"How bad is it? Did it hit bone?"

Isabella managed a weak smile. "Just stitches. I'll live."

"Just stitches?" Nathaniel's voice cracked. "Isabella, this is serious! What if there's permanent damage?"

She arched a brow. "What, disappointed I'm not crippled?"

His jaw clenched. "If you were... I'd marry you."

She blinked. "What?"

Nathaniel's eyes burned with conviction. "I'd take responsibility. Always. If you were hurt because of me, I'd spend the rest of my life making sure you never suffered again."