Chapter 118 Don't Cross the Hamiltons
Isabella's head snapped up. Her voice was shrill and ragged. "Alexander! You've lost your mind! If Edith hadn't died, what would Caroline be to you? Nothing! She never would've been your wife! And now you're defending her? How can you face Edith? Where's your conscience?!"
Alexander watched her unravel, losing every shred of composure. He didn't move or speak. He waited until her screaming burned itself out, until her throat went raw and her voice cracked into silence.
Then he spoke, his tone flat and cold.
"Whether I can face Edith or not, I'm not sure."
He paused.
"But I know this. The Alexander who loved Edith died on that dock the same day she did."
He leaned down, bringing his face close to hers. She'd gone pale as death.
"What's left now," he said quietly, "is just a madman."
He straightened, his gaze sliding over her terror-stricken eyes. His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Mrs. Neville, what do you think a madman might do? Can you predict that?"
Isabella's composure shattered completely. She clutched her head with both hands.
"No!"
Alexander let out a low, humorless laugh.
He stood tall again, looking down at her like she was something small and broken.
"If the Neville family really cared about Edith the way you claim, why didn't you send guards to protect her? Then she wouldn't have died on that dock." He paused, fingertips brushing the ring on his pinky. "Actually, if it weren't for Edith's sake…"
His voice dropped lower, colder.
"The Neville family would've been quietly erased from Grandhaven's social circles a long time ago."
He turned and extended his hand toward one of his men.
The guard immediately understood and placed a handgun into Alexander's palm.
Alexander took it, turning it over in his hand with casual, unhurried ease.
"I was going to let the Neville family survive," he said almost conversationally. "Unfortunately, you didn't know when to stop."
He lifted his eyes and locked them onto Isabella.
"No matter if I choose to keep her, discard her, or end her life myself—it will always be my decision, and no one else has the right to interfere."
He tilted his head slightly, brow furrowed as if genuinely considering something important.
"So. Which member of the Neville family should I start with?"
Isabella panicked.
She whipped around toward the Neville guards standing frozen around the room. "What are you waiting for?! Move! Stop him! Kill him!"
But under the cold, armed stares of Alexander's men, the Neville guards either looked down, looked away, or stepped back.
They were outnumbered. Outgunned.
Charging forward now would be suicide.
And even if they somehow managed to kill Alexander, the Hamilton family would hunt them down to the last man.
Isabella's desperation boiled over. She screamed, wild and reckless. "Celeste! Help me! Come out!"
Alexander's expression shifted slightly.
He followed Isabella's gaze.
A dull metallic clang echoed from the kitchen.
Alexander's eyes went ice-cold.
He turned and walked toward the half-open kitchen door.
The kitchen door swung wide as Alexander stepped inside.
The space was large and empty, silent except for the shrill whistle of a kettle on the stove. Steam hissed weakly; the water was nearly gone.
His footsteps stopped in the center of the room. His sharp gaze swept every corner.
Then it settled on a row of built-in cabinets along the wall.
He moved toward them.
Inside the cabinet, Celeste pressed both hands over her mouth. She was shaking so hard her teeth rattled. She bit down, trying to stifle the sound.
The footsteps grew closer.
She held her breath, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs.
The footsteps stopped—right in front of the cabinet.
Celeste shuddered. She thought she might pass out.
Then the footsteps moved again. Away. Fading.
She lifted her head just slightly, peering through the crack in the cabinet door.
The gap was too narrow. She couldn't see anything.
No sound now. Had he left?
She was about to exhale when the cabinet door was yanked open.
A hand—long fingers, strong grip.
Celeste's head jerked up.
Alexander stood above her, backlit, looking down with that same cold, unreadable expression.
"Found you," he said softly.
Two guards hauled Celeste from the cabinet and dumped her beside Isabella on the living room floor.
The two women tumbled together in a heap.
Alexander didn't look at them. He walked to an armchair and sat down.
He picked up the gun again, turning it over in his hand—slow, deliberate.
"Now," he said, lifting his gaze. It moved between Isabella, trembling, and Celeste, hollow-eyed and lost. "Let's talk. Luring Caroline out. Kidnapping her. Planning to cut off her head and dump her in the ocean."
He paused.
"Whose idea was that?"
Isabella and Celeste clung to each other, teeth chattering. Neither spoke.
Alexander wasn't surprised.
His fingers traced the cold barrel of the gun. His eyes settled on Isabella.
"When you called me that day to beg for Celeste, I knew something was off." His voice was calm, almost thoughtful. "No matter how much you care for Celeste, she's still just your adopted daughter. You could never love her more than Edith, the daughter you raised yourself."
Isabella's body went rigid.
"You said I've gone mad." Alexander's lips curled into a faint smile. "But I think, Mrs. Neville, the one who's truly lost her mind is you."
His gaze turned sharp as a blade.
"Still. I didn't think you'd have the nerve to touch someone who belongs to me."
He turned his attention to Celeste.
"And you, Celeste." His voice dropped, colder now. "I remember what I told you. Play the part of Edith. That's all. Don't think. Don't interfere."
Celeste flinched, her face draining of color.
"So why," Alexander said, tilting his head slightly, "did you feel the need to meddle in Hamilton family business?"