Chapter 6

The morning sun cast long shadows across the corporate plaza when Isabella Sinclair collided with Alexander Whitmore in the lobby. Her breath hitched. She hadn't expected him back from Salzburg so soon.

Alexander's sharp gaze flickered with surprise before turning glacial. He strode past without acknowledgment, his tailored suit cutting an imposing silhouette against the marble floors.

Once, Isabella would've chased after him with sparkling eyes. Once, she'd have woven entire fantasies around such accidental meetings. Now, she merely noted the sharp angle of his jaw before looking away.

By the time the elevator doors closed behind him, she'd already calculated how soon she could file divorce papers.

Her keyboard clacked with renewed focus when Benjamin Hayes summoned her. "Two coffees for Mr. Whitmore's office. Immediately."

The request stung like salt on a fresh wound. She'd perfected her coffee craft for Alexander during those early, hopeful months of marriage. The way his shoulders relaxed after the first sip had been her private victory.

Now the silver carafe trembled in her grip as she approached his ajar office door.

Victoria Kensington's crimson nails were tangled in Alexander's hair when Isabella froze on the threshold. Their lips parted with audible wetness.

"Who permitted your entry?" Alexander's voice could've flash-frozen the Atlantic.

Isabella's knuckles whitened around the tray. "Your coffee, sir."

Daniel Prescott materialized beside her, dripping condescension. "Pathetic, Ms. Sinclair. Using coffee as an excuse to spy?"

The scalding liquid sloshed over her fingers as she turned. Alexander's final dagger followed her out: "Repeat this, and you're terminated."

Victoria's simpering voice chased her down the hall. "Don't be cross, darling. She's clearly still obsessed with you."

In the staff kitchen, Isabella watched her reflection distort in the swirling drain. The burn cream in her purse—originally packed for Sophia's scraped knees—now soothed her blistered skin.

Gossip slithered through cubicles like vipers:

"—Whitmore's heiress girlfriend touring the executive floor—"

"—dressed in head-to-toe Valentino—"

Isabella silenced them by standing. The elevator doors parted to reveal Victoria holding court with four fawning VPs.

"Your company's infrastructure is impressive," Victoria purred, examining her manicure. The managers practically genuflected. "Naturally, Ms. Kensington! Given your... special relationship with our CEO."

Their sycophantic grins curdled when Isabella stepped forward. One VP actually shielded Victoria. "Watch your step! You nearly bumped into the future Mrs. Whitmore!"

Victoria's smirk could've powered a frostbite epidemic. Isabella walked past without breaking stride, her heels clicking like a countdown to freedom.