Chapter 48
She was no longer the timid woman who used to stay home, head bowed, quietly simmering hangover soup for him.
"James. Perfect timing."
Albert didn't feel the sudden heaviness in the room, the kind of pressure that could squeeze a man's heart to a stop.
He pushed himself up, waving at James with bright, oblivious enthusiasm.
"This is the designer I mentioned—the one who finally convinced this old man to hand over the reins. Northstar Architecture's star talent, Isabella Tudor. Isabella, meet James Sinclair, the head of The Sinclair Group. You two will be tied together on the Grand Theater project for the next five years, so play nice."
He gestured between them, still smiling. "You're all on the same side. Cross‑country partnerships only work when the younger generation actually talks."
James didn't move. His body stayed locked in place.
His Adam's apple bobbed once, harsh and strained. The eyes that usually dominated boardrooms were rimmed with a thin, alarming red.
"Isabella…"
Albert's hand froze mid‑gesture.
For a man who'd spent decades surviving both the architectural world and corporate politics, Albert's instincts were razor‑sharp.
"What's this?" His brows lifted. His gaze flicked between them with pointed suspicion. "From the way he said your name—do you two already know each other?"
James's breath faltered. He was one step away from telling Albert everything—that this woman was his wife.
But.
"How would that be possible? Mr. Windsor, you're joking." Isabella set her teacup down with steady, deliberate calm.
She didn't stand. She simply leaned back, relaxed and almost indifferent.
Her eyes lifted, giving James a single, icy glance.
"How could I possibly know someone as high and mighty as Mr. Sinclair?"
Her voice was smooth and cold, like crystal hitting stone—clear, sharp, and emotionless.
"I once picked up something worthless at a dusty flea market. A defective piece of trash you can't even recycle. I threw it in the incinerator ages ago. Why bring it up now?"
James's expression darkened instantly. A vein jumped at his temple.
He was a man used to deference, to obedience—never to being called defective garbage.
"Defective junk?" His laugh was low and sharp. "Ms. Tudor, your talent for cutting people off is even more impressive than that blind sketch you pulled onstage. Though you seem to forget—if it was defective, who was the one refusing to let it go back then?"
Isabella didn't flinch.
His aggression didn't touch her. Not anymore.
"Everyone makes mistakes. Who hasn't taken in an ungrateful creature that eventually bites the hand that feeds it?"
She leaned back slightly, escaping the warmth of his breath, and lifted her cup for a calm sip.
"With medicine being as advanced as it is, once the blind spots clear, you learn to cut your losses. Don't you agree, Mr. Sinclair?"
"Isabella." His voice broke. A warning. A desperate edge.
Albert had seen enough.
The air between them was so volatile that he half‑expected sparks to catch the building on fire.
He cleared his throat and set his cup down before rising. He smoothed his old jacket, a practiced gesture.
"When you get old, your back stiffens if you sit too long. I hear the committee downstairs is still finalizing the Gold Award paperwork. As head judge, I should sign it myself."
He leaned on his cane, paused at the door, and gave each of them a long, knowing look.
"The theater project is yours to sort out. James, you may be the one investing, but she's a treasure in our field. Treat her properly. I'll leave you to it."
The heavy soundproof door shut behind Albert with a clean, final click.
And just like that, every trace of polite performance in the VIP lounge shattered.
The second the latch settled, James reached out and seized Isabella's wrist.
"What are you doing? Let go!" Her brows snapped together as the tea sloshed violently, spilling over the rim. Hot droplets hit the back of her hand, turning the skin an angry red.
James saw the burn. His eyes tightened as if something pierced straight through him. But instead of letting her go, he hauled her up from the sofa with even more force.
"You're coming with me." His voice was raw, reckless, almost unhinged.
One thought drowned out everything else—get her out of here. Take her somewhere no one could reach. Strip away every thorn wedged between them these past three years.
"James, have you completely lost it?! This is backstage at the summit! Let me go!"
Isabella fought him, her stiletto slamming down onto his expensive shoe. He didn't even flinch. He moved like a steel barricade, unyielding, his grip clamped tight around her wrist as he dragged her through the back door.
The corridor beyond was empty, the wool carpet swallowing every sound.
James spun, trapping her against the cold marble wall.
His chest heaved. Her body was pinned between his and the stone, and in his bloodshot eyes she saw something she had never seen before—desperation. A kind of pleading so raw it didn't seem possible it belonged to him.
"Yes. I'm insane."
"Why didn't you tell me you were at Northstar Architecture? Why would you rather let the Amber District tear you apart—those cheap little digs, that petty exclusion—than look to me for help even once?"
"Look to you?" Isabella stared at him. The accusation was so twisted she almost laughed.
"James, what exactly makes you think I owe you that? Our marriage was nothing but cold silence, nights you didn't come home, and your mother's constant, condescending insults. What did you ever give me?"