Chapter 40
Liam's POV
Large expanses of gray tones. A dark fabric sofa. An entire wall of bookshelves lined not with fashion magazines but with hardcover books and legal journals. In the corner stood a black grand piano, its lid bare of any decoration.
This wasn't a room designed for show.
This was a room designed for living.
Or rather—a room designed for thinking.
"Sit." Isabella walked over to the open kitchen area and turned on the coffee machine. "Want something to drink?"
"No, thanks."
She turned around at the bar counter, hands braced on the surface, head tilted as she looked at me.
Sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, forming a soft halo behind her. Her emerald eyes appeared particularly translucent in the morning light—like some very expensive gemstone.
"Liam." She called my name again, this time with a different tone. No longer the ambiguous, languid inflection, but something sharper. "Let's not beat around the bush, okay?"
"Okay."
"I already know about what happened last night."
My stomach tightened.
"How do you know?"
"Someone sent me a message," she said, her tone as flat as if she were discussing the weather. "About that little... gathering you hosted at the beach house. And the woman who went with you."
She paused.
"Elise, right?"
I said nothing.
Because I didn't know what to say.
Deny it? She clearly already had evidence. Admit it? That would be handing myself over to an even more passive position.
Isabella saw through my hesitation. She let out a short laugh—brief, devoid of any warmth.
"Relax. I'm not planning to use this for anything."
"Then you—"
"I mean, I'm not planning to use it against you."
She enunciated those two words very clearly.
"But," she straightened up and walked toward me, her heels clicking crisply against the marble floor, "this has already reached the family. Not just the Sterlings—my side has caught wind of it too. You know what that means, don't you?"
I knew.
It meant the alliance marriage would be questioned. It meant Isabella's reputation would be implicated. It meant those elders who were already skeptical about this engagement had just gained another bargaining chip.
"So I need you to do something." She stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell her scent—a very faint woody perfume, just like the woman herself: calm, restrained, without any cloying sweetness. "In front of everyone, announce that your relationship with Elise is over."
"And then?"
"Then we proceed with the engagement as planned."
She looked at me, her gaze devoid of any emotional fluctuation. Not like making a request. Like stating a business term.
"Isla—"
"Let me finish first." She interrupted me, her voice still steady, though I noticed her fingers curled slightly at her side—the only signal of tension she betrayed. "I know you don't love me. I've never expected you to fall in love with me either. This alliance marriage isn't about love for me—it's a transaction. I'm trading my reputation, my family background, my social network, for the Sterling family's resources and protective umbrella."
She took a step forward.
Now less than half a meter separated us.
"What can I give you? A respectable marriage. A wife who won't scheme behind your back. A partner who can shield you from all the trouble at social functions. And you only need to do one thing—"
Her eyes locked onto mine.
"Clean up all those messy women, or at least don't parade them in public. Starting with Elise."
I looked at her.
For the first time, truly and completely looking at this woman to whom I was engaged.
Twenty-three years old. Harvard Law School graduate.
Fluent in four languages. Professional-level equestrian, fencing, and piano skills. Impeccable in every public appearance—elegant, proper, complementing the man beside her at just the right degree without stealing any spotlight.
I had always thought she was the typical arranged marriage tool. Beautiful, intelligent, but without her own opinions. Marry whoever the family told her to marry.
Now I realized I was wrong.
She had her own calculations.
And she was far more ambitious than I had imagined.
"What if I don't agree?" I asked.
Isabella smiled.
This time she was really smiling—the corners of her mouth curved up, fine lines appeared at the corners of her eyes, and suddenly she had a certain living, breathing quality.
"Then your grandfather will come talk to you himself. I'm just here first to give you a heads-up, let you mentally prepare."
She turned and walked back to the bar area, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
"But honestly, Liam," she said, holding the cup with her back to me, her voice softening slightly, "what you should do isn't just break up with Elise. You should think about—the person who turned your carefully orchestrated 'farce' completely upside down, who took your woman right from under your nose, who's made it so you can't even contact her now—"
She turned her head, something unreadable flashing in her emerald eyes.
"—what exactly does he want."
I felt as if I'd been stung, my gaze fixed intently on Isabella. "Don't worry about it. If I find him, I'll break his legs myself."