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Chapter15
The possibility hit Alexander Stone like poison flooding his veins–sudden, vicious, consuming
every thought.
His heart slammed against his ribs; heat rose, then seemed to drain away in a rush of cold.
On the surface, he stayed composed. But he had too little to work with–he needed proof, solid and
undeniable.
Work at Grace Studio (Northbridge) went on. In a strategy session on product philosophy, Grace proposed a new direction, blending Eastern principles of negative space and flow into modern tech design to ease high–end professionals‘ anxiety.
Her articulation was clean and layered–psychology, aesthetics, function–each point locking into
the next.
The idea hit him with a jolt of recognition, echoing an instinct he’d carried for years but never put
into words.
At the projector, she was steady and assured, sketching as though her hands drew light itself.
Admiration rose hard and bright–followed, against his will, by jealousy. Jealousy of the male designers conferring with her, of the way she met their eyes and answered them without flinching. Jealousy of anyone who had a place in her world when he did not.
From the hall, Bella caught it as well.
She’d meant to pull Alexander to lunch, but his gaze on Grace, intent, absorbed–stopped her cold.
Panic clenched her chest, morphing fast into envy‘
She resorted to the most extreme tactic, fabricating a farewell letter, faking an overdose, and trying
to force Alexander into marriage.
She staged her apartment like a scene, sent a goodbye text, and swallowed a handful of vitamins disguised as sedatives.
Then she lay down and waited.
The message blared on Alexander’s phone like a warning. He didn’t believe it, not really. But he
couldn’t risk a life. He went‘.
Chapter15
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He forced the door open. Bella lay “unconscious” beside a scattered bottle and a letter.
He checked her–clear breathing, normal color, not a single sign of toxicity. Even the letter looked rushed and sloppy.
His jaw hardened. He was a second from erupting when his phone buzzed again.
Ethan Cole.
Final report attached. And a clip–grainy, crucial–labeled. DashCam Archive – WRP–07.
The room seemed to vacuum–seal around him. He opened the file with a shaking thumb.
Static. A screech of brakes, the sickening crunch of steel. His car, crumpled and smoking.
Another vehicle skidded to a stop. Before it fully halted, a slender figure stumbled out and sprinted to his door.
Grace.
The dashcam had no audio, yet he could almost hear her panic as she fought the twisted door, her hands slick with his blood. She pressed down–steady, desperate, her dress soaking dark, her face pale and set. Her lips shaped his name again and again. “Alexander! Alexander, stay with me!”
Fragile and unbreakable. Terrified and unwavering. She was fury and prayer in one body.
Only later–much later–another car rolled up. Bella got out, hands at her lips, hovering at a distance. She didn’t move closer until the distant wail of an ambulance grew near. Then she stepped forward, easing into the frame, taking the position Grace had held until her strength failed and she slumped aside–half out of sight of the camera, nearly erased.
Alexander’s fist crashed into the edge of the rosewood desk. Pain flared; skin split. He didn’t feel it.
Something in his chest wrenched and tore–a brutal, internal rending.
It had never been Bella.
It had been Grace.
