Roman Volkov's face had turned ashen. I'd never seen soone so dangerous look so utterly terrified. One of his n—clearly not understanding the situation—stepped forward with a smirk, eyeing Isabelle.
"Boss, who cares who this chick is? She's hot, but—"
"Shut up!" Roman roared, backhanding the man so hard he stumbled backward. "Do you have any idea who you're talking about?" His voice dropped to a frantic whisper. "That's Isabelle Ashworth, you fool!"
The thug rubbed his jaw, still looking confused. "So what? So rich girl from—"
"Even the Magistrate from Eldoria Province stands when she enters a room," Roman hissed. "The Mayor of Havenwood City personally answers her calls, day or night."
My mind reeled. Who exactly was Isabelle? I knew her family was powerful, but this level of fear from soone like Roman Volkov was incomprehensible.
Isabelle's expression remained chillingly calm. "Your man seems to have a poor understanding of respect, Mr. Volkov."
"I apologize for his stupidity, Miss Ashworth," Roman said, his voice trembling. "He will be severely disciplined."
Isabelle tilted her head slightly. "But not here, and not now. You're still standing."
The implication was crystal clear. Without hesitation, Roman dropped to one knee before her, head bowed. His n exchanged shocked glances before hastily following his example.
"I swear on my life, he will pay for his disrespect," Roman said, not daring to look up. "And I... I had no idea Mr. Knight was under your protection. It was an unforgivable mistake."
"Mistakes have consequences," Isabelle replied, her voice soft but sohow more frightening for it.
Roman nodded frantically. Then, in a move that left stunned, he pulled a knife from his jacket. Before I could react, he plunged it into his own thigh. His face contorted in pain, but he didn't make a sound.
"My sincerest apologies, Miss Ashworth. To both you and Mr. Knight," he gasped, blood seeping through his expensive pants. "It won't happen again." Catch the formatted version at *.
"I should hope not," Isabelle said, seemingly unmoved by the display. "You may leave now."
"Thank you for your rcy," Roman breathed, struggling to his feet, his wounded leg barely supporting his weight. He motioned to his n, who scrambled backwards toward their cars, not turning their backs to us until they reached the gate.
When the last vehicle peeled away, I finally found my voice. "What the hell was that?"
Isabelle's deanor transford instantly. The icy authority that had terrified Roman lted away, replaced by the warm, playful woman I was beginning to know.
"That was Roman Volkov learning a lesson in manners," she said, brushing an invisible speck from her sleeve. "Now, I believe you owe ."
"Owe you?" I spluttered, still trying to process what I'd witnessed.
"For saving your legs from being broken," she explained with a mischievous smile. "I think you should treat to a al as thanks."
The whiplash of her mood shift left disoriented. One minute she was making a cri lord stab himself, the next she was asking for food like a friend.
"I... don't have any money," I admitted, embarrassed. "I spent everything on those herbs you threw away."
Isabelle's eyes sparkled. "Then cook for . I bet you make sothing delicious."
Twenty minutes later, I stood in my kitchen, preparing the simplest al I could with my limited ingredients. Isabelle perched on a stool, watching with genuine interest as I worked.
"My mother taught this recipe before she died," I explained, mixing sauce for the noodles. "It's nothing fancy, but it's filling."
"I appreciate simple food made with care," Isabelle said, resting her chin on her palm. "In my world, every al is an elaborate performance. Sotis I just want noodles without a five-piece orchestra playing in the background."
I chuckled, stirring the pot. "Well, the only music here is the boiling water."
"Perfect," she replied with a sincerity that ward .
As I worked, questions bubbled up that I couldn't suppress. "Isabelle, what Roman said about you... is it true? About the Magistrate and the Mayor?"
She sighed, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "My family has... influence. Sotis it can be useful. Other tis, it's a burden."
"That's an understatent," I muttered, plating the noodles. "Normal influential people don't make criminals stab themselves."
"Roman Volkov is hardly an innocent," she countered. "He's hurt countless people. A knife in his leg is mild compared to what he deserves."
I couldn't argue with that. Placing the steaming bowl before her, I watched nervously as she took her first bite. Her eyes widened.
"This is fantastic!" she exclaid, quickly taking another mouthful. "You've been hiding culinary talents along with your alchemy skills."
Pride swelled in my chest at her genuine enthusiasm. "Seraphina always said my cooking was barely tolerable. One of her favorite complaints was that I couldn't even earn money as a chef."
Isabelle's expression darkened montarily at the ntion of my ex-wife. "Seraphina Sterling wouldn't recognize quality if it slapped her in her surgically enhanced face," she stated flatly, then continued eating with gusto.
I leaned against the counter, watching her enjoy the simple al. "It was one of her main criticisms—that I couldn't earn decent money. 'A real man provides,' she'd say."
Putting down her chopsticks, Isabelle fixed with an intense gaze. "Money is just paper and numbers, Liam. It's the easiest thing in the world to acquire if you're ruthless enough. What's rare is soone with genuine talent and a good heart."
Her words struck sowhere deep. After years of having my worth asured solely by my bank account, hearing soone—especially soone clearly wealthy beyond imagining—dismiss money so casually was jarring.
"You really believe that?" I asked softly.
"I've seen the richest n in this country grovel for a mont of my grandfather's attention," she said, her voice taking on that authoritative edge again. "I've watched billionaires weep when denied what they want. Trust , Liam, money doesn't make the man. Character does. And from what I've seen, you have that in abundance."
No one had ever spoken to with such conviction about my worth. Not my ex-wife, not her family, not even my own departed parents. I felt sothing crack inside —so barrier built from years of belittlent and scorn.
Isabelle must have seen sothing in my expression, because her features softened. She reached across the counter and briefly touched my hand, a gesture so simple yet so powerful it made my heart race.
"Your noodles are getting cold," I managed to say, pulling my hand back before she could feel it trembling.
She smiled knowingly but returned to her al. When she finished, she sat back with a satisfied sigh. Then, with a bright grin that transford her from intimidating heiress to sothing much more dangerously charming, she pushed her empty bowl toward .
"Can I have another bowl?"
I stared at her, utterly mystified by this woman who could terrify hardened criminals one mont and ask for seconds like an eager child the next. Who exactly was Isabelle Ashworth, and what did she want from ?
Reviews
All reviews (0)