The night bled into dawn, but sleep never came. Isabella sat on the couch long after Alexander left, staring at the broken mug on the floor. The silence felt heavy, suffocating, filled with words unspoken and threats that lingered in the air like smoke.
He had been here. In her space. Breathing the same air as her. Touching things that belonged to her.
He knows.
Not everything—thank God—but enough to tighten the noose around her throat. The memory of his voice replayed on a loop: Run if you want, little wife. But I will find you.
When Liam stirred in his sleep, she forced herself to move, cleaning the shards of ceramic before he woke. Her hands shook so badly she cut herself on a jagged edge. She barely felt the sting. Her mind was a hurricane of panic and questions.
How had he found her? Why now, after all this time? And what would he do if—when—he discovered Liam?
Her stomach twisted. She had to leave. Pack their bags, disappear before he came back. But where? She had no money for a new apartment, no friends outside this city. And her mother—she couldn't abandon her when she needed treatment.
Isabella pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. Running wasn't an option. Survival meant finding stability, fast. Which meant going to the interview she had scheduled for this morning, like nothing had happened.
Her chest ached at the irony. The same city she'd vowed never to return to was now her lifeline—and her death sentence.
By the time Liam woke, Isabella had plastered on a smile. She dressed him, fed him breakfast, walked him to the neighbor who had agreed to watch him for a few hours. Every goodbye felt like a knife.
"Be good, okay?" she whispered, hugging him tighter than usual.
"Mommy?" He peered up with those haunting hazel eyes. "You look sad."
Her heart cracked. "I'm just tired, sweetheart."
He believed her—thank God for small mercies.
The cab ride to the interview felt like driving straight into hell. Isabella's pulse drummed as the city blurred past—glass towers stabbing at the sky, polished streets crawling with cars. When the cab stopped in front of a building that kissed the clouds, her stomach dropped.
Knight Enterprises.
The name glared down from the steel facade in bold silver letters, arrogant and unyielding—just like him.
Isabella's breath caught. No. No, this was a coincidence. It had to be. There were dozens of event firms in the city. Maybe this was a subsidiary, maybe—
"Ma'am?" The driver's voice snapped her back. She paid, stepped out on shaking legs, and stared up at the monument of power that bore his name.
Her instincts screamed to run. But she couldn't. For Liam. For her mother. For survival.
The lobby was a cathedral of glass and marble, buzzing with sleek men in suits and women in pencil skirts. Isabella smoothed the wrinkles from her modest blouse, praying no one noticed her frayed nerves. She gave her name at the reception, and within minutes, a young assistant with crimson lipstick appeared, all smiles and stilettos.
"This way, Ms. White," she chirped.
White. Isabella clung to the alias like a lifeline. Not Knight. Never Knight.
They glided into a private elevator. Isabella's palms slicked with sweat as the numbers climbed—20… 30… 40. The air grew thinner, sharper, until the doors slid open with a soft chime.
"Right through there," the assistant said, gesturing toward a pair of double doors at the end of a gleaming corridor.
Isabella's pulse spiked. The hallway felt endless, the sound of her heels echoing like gunshots. Her heart banged against her ribs, screaming warnings she couldn't obey.
She reached the doors. Drew a breath. Knocked once.
"Come in."
The voice—deep, smooth, devastating—froze her blood.
No. God, no.
Her fingers trembled on the handle. She pushed the door open. And the world tilted.
He was there.
Alexander Knight sat behind a mahogany desk the size of a small country, power draped over him like a second skin. The morning sun sliced through floor-to-ceiling windows, gilding the edges of his dark hair, his chiseled jaw. His suit was black, his tie blood-red, and his eyes—God, those eyes—were black fire, burning holes straight through her soul.
"Isabella," he said, her name a weapon in his mouth.
Her lungs forgot how to work. "You…" Her voice cracked like thin glass. "You own this company."
One brow arched, cruel and amused. "Among others."
Her knees wobbled. She gripped the doorframe like it could save her from drowning. "You… you planned this."
His lips curved, slow and sinful. "You make it sound like I've been waiting for you to walk into my office." He leaned back, the picture of lazy arrogance. "Which I have."
Isabella's stomach knotted. "I didn't know—"
"Liar." The word cracked like a whip. His voice dropped, silken and sharp. "You come back to my city, apply for a job at my company, and expect me to believe it's a coincidence?"
"I need this job," she blurted, shame scorching her cheeks. "I have responsibilities—"
"Oh, I'm aware." His gaze dipped, slow and deliberate, as if peeling away her defenses. "But tell me, Isabella… what exactly do you think you can offer me?"
Heat crawled up her neck. "I'm qualified—"
"For the position," he finished, his tone mocking. "Sure. But here's the thing, wife." He rose from his chair, and the air shifted—thicker, hotter. He moved with lethal grace, a predator closing in on prey. "I don't hire people I can't trust."
Her back hit the wall. Her breath hitched. "Alexander…"
He stopped inches away, his shadow swallowing hers. His scent—smoke and cedar—wrapped around her, dizzying. His hand braced beside her head, caging her in.
"You disappeared," he murmured, voice low, dangerous. "Without a word. Without a goodbye. You humiliated me, Isabella. Do you have any idea what that does to a man like me?"
Her throat closed. "We're over."
His laugh was soft, deadly. "Over?" His eyes darkened, a storm brewing. "You were mine then. You're mine now. And this time—" He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear, his words a vow etched in fire. "You don't get to run."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. His nearness burned. Every nerve screamed to fight, to flee, but her body betrayed her—frozen, trembling.
"Your interview," he whispered, lips ghosting her cheek, "is over."
Her breath stuttered. Relief and dread tangled inside her.
Until he added, softly, like a blade sliding between her ribs:
"You start tomorrow. As my personal assistant."
The floor fell away.
She stared at him, horror flooding her veins. "What?"
His smile was cold perfection. "You wanted a job. I'm giving you one." His gaze raked her, possessive and merciless. "But understand this, Isabella—working for me isn't just business."
He stepped back, just enough for her to breathe. His eyes locked on hers, dark and burning with a promise she couldn't mistake.
"It's personal."