Alexander wasn't used to people walking away from him—especially not women. Yet there she was, slipping through his fingers with nothing more than a sharp stare and carefully spoken threat.
He sat in his office long after she left, her perfume still lingering in the air like a question he didn't know how to answer.
Isabella Harper was a puzzle. And the more he tried to figure her out, the more tangled he became in her game.
But was it her game?
Or had he unknowingly stepped into one of his own making?
Later that evening, Isabella was pouring herself a glass of wine when her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
She hesitated.
Then picked up.
"Ms. Harper," came the low, unmistakable voice.
She didn't respond. She let the silence stretch, holding her breath.
"You said I need to decide," Alexander continued. "But you should know—I don't like ultimatums."
"And I don't like being toyed with," she replied, voice sharp.
"I'm not toying with you," he said. "I'm trying to see how far you're willing to go."
Isabella's grip on the glass tightened. "For what, exactly? A deal? A position? Or you?"
Silence.
Then, softly: "Maybe all three."
She didn't know whether to laugh or slam the phone down.
But she didn't do either.
Instead, she whispered, "Then make me an offer worth the risk."
The line went dead.
The next morning, a sleek black car waited outside her building. No driver in sight. Just a single envelope on the seat with her name, printed in his clean, familiar font.
Inside:
A private dinner. Tonight. 8PM. Wear red.
— A.K.
Her pulse quickened. This wasn't business anymore.
This was the first real move.
That night, Isabella stood in front of her mirror, dressed in crimson silk that slid over her curves like fire. She told herself this was strategy—just another way to get under his skin, to gain the upper hand.
But when she walked into the penthouse restaurant and saw Alexander Knight waiting—tie loosened, cuffs rolled, a half-smirk curving his lips—she forgot all about strategy.
"Ms. Harper," he said, standing as she approached. "You clean up well."
"You told me to wear red," she said coolly. "I obeyed orders."
His eyes darkened. "You look like a warning."
She sat across from him, pretending not to care how his gaze lingered. "And you look like trouble."
The waiter poured the wine. Neither of them touched it.
They weren't here for food.
"I don't trust you," she said bluntly.
"Good," he replied. "I don't trust myself around you either."
She swallowed hard.
For the first time in years, Isabella didn't know if she was winning… or slowly falling.
And across the table, Alexander Knight was wondering the same.