Chapter 89 His Answer Was My No
Chapter 89 His Answer Was My No
The wind coming off the bay caught my hair, tossing it across my face in chaotic strands.
Arthur reached out without hesitation, his fingers brushing against my skin as he tucked the loose locks behind my ear. The cool touch against the heat of my ear sent a shiver racing down my spine.
"Sophia," he said, his eyes locked on mine, his voice carrying a rare and unyielding steadiness, "you're not a pawn to me."
"I asked you up here, with Lisa present, so you'd know—every move I make from now on, you'll be aware of. I'm done keeping things from you."
"This time, when I go back to Asteria City, I'm not meeting a business partner."
His gaze sharpened in that moment, sharp as a blade.
"I'm going after Marshall."
Marshall.
The man who betrayed his father, leading to his death. The strategist of the Russell family, once my father Davis's most trusted right hand. The man who set into motion the tragedy that destroyed my mother.
"I swear to you, Sophia, I won't let anything happen to you."
I held his gaze, hearing the weight in every word.
Marshall.
His name was like a corroded key, forcing open a box in the darkest corner of my memory—one stained with blood and dust. My father's death, my family's collapse, my mother's fate… every wound traced back to him.
And now Arthur was going back, for his father, and for me.
"I swear to you, Sophia, I won't let anything happen to you."
The words felt like a vow carved in steel, each syllable burning against my chest.
I had believed I'd never trust a man's promise again.
But looking into those deep amber eyes, I found myself… believing.
Just as my defenses began to crumble under the weight of his vow—
The sudden vibration of a phone cut through the moment.
It was like ice water poured straight down my spine, dragging me back from the dangerous warmth of his promise.
Arthur's brows drew together, irritation flickering in his expression at the interruption. He reached for his phone.
My eyes followed without meaning to.
The screen lit up, and a name pierced me like a needle.
Isabella.
My stomach dropped.
Before I could react, Arthur unlocked the phone, the message exposed without hesitation.
Isabella: [Arthur, can we meet tonight? I have a charity gala tomorrow but haven't found the right dress yet. I was thinking of checking a few shops in town. Could you drive me?]
Every line dripped with easy familiarity, the kind of tone a woman uses with a man she expects to say yes.
Ice flooded my veins.
He had just sworn to me, and now he was about to spend the evening helping another woman choose dresses?
I was a fool.
A complete fool to believe a mafia godfather's promise, to think I was his only exception.
Humiliation and anger tangled together inside me, growing wild until they choked out reason.
I watched his long fingers move across the screen, as if crafting a reply.
What would he say? Agree, then lie to me? Or refuse outright?
My heart hung suspended, my breath forgotten.
No.
I was never the kind to wait passively.
Just before his thumb could hit send, I reached out and snatched the phone from his hand.
The speed of my own reaction startled me.
Arthur's eyes widened briefly, surprise flashing before it shifted into a slow, amused smile. He leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms, watching me.
That look said, "Let's see what you'll do."
That bastard.
The way he stood there, entertained, lit a fire in my chest.
I lowered my eyes to the glaring text box and typed quickly: [No time.]
Two words, cold and sharp, leaving no space for negotiation.
Just as I was about to hit send, his voice from last night echoed in my mind, deep and edged with provocation.
He had called me soft.
A reckless thought rose out of nowhere.
I erased the two words and typed another: [Weak.]
The sight of it jolted me back to myself.
What the hell was I doing?
Was I insane?
It was the label I hated most, the one I feared the most.
Why would I even consider sending it?
Was I trying to tell Isabella that he was with a "weak" woman now? Or was I warning myself not to be stupid again?
My thoughts twisted into knots.
Heat flushed my cheeks.
I deleted the word in a rush, as if it were something shameful.
My fingertips turned pale from the pressure.
I drew a deep breath, retyped the cold "No time," then hit send without hesitation.
When it was done, I shoved the phone back into his hands as if it burned to touch.
"Mr. Russell, it seems you have quite a busy schedule of dates," I said, my chin lifting, my tone sharpened into the sharpest edge I could muster. "I wonder where I rank."
I waited for him to snap back, to demand an explanation.
But he didn't.
He glanced at the phone once, slid it into his pocket without a care.
Then he straightened and walked toward me.
His height cast a shadow over me, his presence pressing down like a weight I could feel in my bones.
Instinctively, I tensed, bracing like a hedgehog ready to defend itself.
He stopped in front of me, silent, his eyes holding something layered and unreadable.
After a long moment, he smiled.
It was the kind of smile that didn't bother to hide its satisfaction.
He reached out—not for my throat, not for my wrist.