Chapter 16
She slid three folders across the table toward Mason, her gaze steady and unshaken.
"Mr. Young, every piece of evidence is right here. Those so‑called rumors online were nothing but paid smear campaigns. My professional credentials and ethics can stand up to any kind of scrutiny."
Mason glanced at the folders, the pleasant smile on his face never wavering.
Yet he didn't open a single page. Instead, he leisurely lifted his glass, leaned back in his chair, and let his eyes drift over Isabella with a slow, mocking appreciation.
"Ms. Tudor," he murmured, swirling the wine as his tone shifted into something uncomfortably suggestive. "I believed you the moment I saw your proposal. Your talent is obvious. You're a rare find."
He rose from his chair, drink in hand, and walked around the table with deliberate, unhurried steps until he was standing beside her.
"But you know how business works," he went on. "Skill alone doesn't cut it. You need to make your partners feel comfortable."
He stopped at her side, resting one hand on the back of her chair and leaning in, his smile twisting into something nauseatingly blatant.
"This project's big. A lot of eyes watching. If you really want to keep this deal alive, we should have a proper talk tonight. Not about the project. About us."
As he spoke, his other hand drifted toward her shoulder.
The sharp crack echoed through the private room before he even realized what had happened.
Isabella's slap hit him with enough force to stagger him backward. His wineglass flew from his hand and shattered on the floor.
Mason clutched his cheek, staring at her in disbelief.
Isabella rose from her seat, looking down at him. Disgust and a cold, cutting fury sharpened every line of her expression.
"Mason, take a good look at who you're talking to."
"I came here for business. Not to entertain someone like you. If you don't understand that boundary, then this deal isn't worth keeping."
She grabbed her briefcase and headed for the door.
"Stop right there!" Mason's voice exploded behind her. He clutched his burning cheek, rage twisting his features.
"Isabella! You slapped me?! Do you have any idea who I am? I can ruin you in this industry with one phone call!"
He lunged after her, catching her wrist in a bruising grip.
Isabella twisted against him, but his hand clamped around her like steel. "Let go of me!"
"You're gonna get on your knees and apologize!" Mason snarled, his face distorted with fury. "If you don't, I'll pull the funding and make sure you—"
The door crashed open with a violent kick.
The impact sent it slamming into the wall so hard that the entire room trembled.
A tall figure stood backlit by the hallway lights, a chill rolling off him like a winter storm.
James stepped inside, his black coat still carrying the cold bite of the night air, as if he had come straight from outdoors.
His gaze swept over the room in a single, lethal pass—the shattered glass, the scattered folders, Mason's hand crushing Isabella's wrist.
And the faint redness in Isabella's eyes.
Something dark and devastating ignited behind his expression.
He strode forward, seized Mason's wrist, and twisted hard.
Mason screamed. His fingers spasmed open.
James pulled Isabella behind him, then gripped Mason's collar with his other hand and slammed him against the wall.
"That hand you used to touch her," James said quietly, leaning in, "do you want to break it yourself, or should I do it for you?"
Pinned by the throat of his jacket, Mason's face flushed crimson as he dangled, feet barely touching the floor. Terror widened his eyes.
"Mr. Sinclair—! What are you—"
"Call the police." James didn't look at Isabella, but the order was clearly meant for her.
She stood behind him, staring at the broad line of his back. Her heart lurched hard against her ribs.
But she didn't hesitate. She took out her phone and dialed.
After ending the call, she reached into the inner pocket of her blazer and pulled out a slim recorder.
The red indicator light blinked steadily.
It had been recording from the moment she entered the room.
She pressed the stop button, lifted it, and shook it at Mason, who was pinned against the wall. "Mr. Young, every single word you just said is all recorded in here."
"Mr. Young, every word you said is on this."
Her voice was terrifyingly calm.
"Workplace sexual harassment is a criminal offense in Lumaria. What you just did fully constitutes a violation. This recording, along with the hallway security footage, is more than enough for a lawsuit."
The color drained from Mason's face—red to white, white to green, then to a sickly, ashen gray.
"No—no, Ms. Tudor, listen, I was drunk, I didn't mean any of it—"
"You can explain that to the police." Isabella cut him off coldly.
"And I'll also forward this recording to the board of West Coast Hospitality & Tourism Group, as well as your company's compliance office. As for you personally, my attorney will file charges first thing tomorrow."
Panic overtook him.
He tore his gaze away from Isabella and turned desperately to James, like a trapped animal searching for any escape.
"Mr. Sinclair! Please—please, we're all business associates here, I wasn't thinking, just talk to her for me—beg her to let this go—"
"You're asking the wrong person," James said, releasing his collar.
Mason collapsed to the floor, sliding down the wall like a discarded heap.
James looked down at him, his expression colder than the night outside.
"She decides how she wants to handle this." His tone sharpened, dropping to a deadly quiet. "But listen carefully, Mason. Whatever deal you end up striking with her lawyer, you'd better pray your own record is spotless. Because starting today, every one of your projects under The Sinclair Group is getting re‑audited. Line by line."
The last trace of color left Mason's face.
He'd been in business long enough to understand exactly what that meant.
The Sinclair Group's influence across the Amber District spanned real estate, finance, and infrastructure, tightly intertwined with the West Coast Tourism & Culture Group. If James wanted to dig through his books, those gray‑area deals he'd relied on for years wouldn't survive a second look.
"You—both of you—"