Chapter 17

Isabella Whitlock shivered in her thin hospital gown, curled up outside the Sinclair mansion all night. The autumn dew soaked her swollen cheeks, and her fever made her vision blur in and out of darkness. Her phone screen flickered—dozens of unread messages left unanswered.

“Mr. Sinclair, it’s time to leave,” the secretary’s voice echoed from inside.

The creak of the iron gate startled Isabella awake. Staggering to her feet, she lunged at the tall figure, her nails digging into Sebastian Sinclair’s tailored suit sleeve.

“Look at me!” She yanked off her mask, revealing a face mottled with bruises. “That bitch Eleanor—”

Sebastian’s gaze was ice-cold, as if she were nothing but trash.

“She did well,” he said, shaking her off. “If you dare bother her again, I’ll deal with you myself.”

Isabella froze as if struck by lightning. Her carefully crafted tears dried on her lashes, and one of her false eyelashes peeled off from the fever, sticking up absurdly.

“You promised—” Her voice trembled. “You said you’d always protect me—”

The man suddenly laughed, his smile sharp as a poisoned blade.

“You believed pillow talk?” He leaned in, whispering in her ear, “I scrub my hands three times every time I touch you.”

Isabella shuddered. Her carefully staged suffering had turned into a farce. Frantic, she tore open the collar of her gown. “Then what about these marks? Last month on the yacht—”

“Enough!” Sebastian’s hand clamped around her throat.

The lack of oxygen made stars explode in her vision. She heard the sickening strain of her own vertebrae, and in her delirium, she saw the raw violence in his eyes—not a shred of tenderness, only bloodlust.

“Mr. Sinclair!” The secretary rushed forward. “Miss Knight is on the phone!”

The grip on her throat vanished. Isabella crumpled to the ground like a discarded doll, listening as Sebastian’s voice softened instantly. “Eleanor? I’ll be right there.”

The black Maybach rolled over her scattered hair. Isabella coughed violently, then suddenly burst into hysterical laughter. She fumbled for her phone, snapped a photo of the bruises on her neck, and sent it with a caption: