Chapter 4 The Case and the Cold

The silver briefcase sat like a bomb on Isabella's kitchen table.

She circled it, biting her bottom lip, every instinct screaming that she should not open it. Alexander Kane had made it clear: Don't open the case.

But he also hadn't said what would happen if she did.

Her fingers hovered over the latch. Her apartment was quiet, too quiet. The hum of the refrigerator and the distant car horns outside were the only signs she hadn't slipped into some twisted dream.

Why would a billionaire CEO send his assistant to pick up an unmarked briefcase from a sketchy warehouse in an alley guarded by a man who looked like he moonlighted as a hitman?

This wasn't just unusual. It was shady.

What if it was drugs? Or cash? Or some kind of blackmail?

She pressed her palms to the table to ground herself, breathing in and out slowly.

Maybe this was a test. Maybe he expected her to peek, to see if she'd follow orders. Or maybe... this was his way of drawing a line between the obedient and the replaceable.

But curiosity, as always, was a dangerous thing.

Her hand moved on its own, flicking the first latch open.

Click.

She hesitated, heart pounding, then flipped the second.

Click.

She slowly lifted the lid.

The sight stole her breath.

Inside wasn't anything she expected.

There were documents, yes, but personal ones. Fragile. Old. A manila envelope sat atop several leather-bound journals, a pair of worn baby shoes, and a photograph in a cracked silver frame.

A photograph of a woman with haunting eyes and soft features... holding a child.

The woman looked vaguely familiar.

She gently picked up the photo, staring at the small boy in her arms. His eyes, icy blue and piercing, were unmistakable.

Alexander Kane.

This was his mother.

And the child version of the man who now ruled her every waking thought.

Carefully, Isabella opened the envelope. Inside were medical records. Dozens of them. All for "Emily Kane." Cancer. Diagnoses. Chemotherapy schedules. Hospice transfers.

Her heart sank as she read the timeline.

She was dying. Slowly. Painfully. And alone.

She flipped to the final page: a death certificate dated over twenty years ago.

Isabella's throat tightened.

This... wasn't meant for her. This wasn't business. This was pain. Deep, buried, protected pain.

And Alexander had trusted her or mistakenly assumed she'd obey, enough to send this without supervision.

What did it mean? Why now?

A cold chill crept down her spine.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed on the counter.

Unknown Number:

"You opened it."

Her breath caught.

Another message popped up instantly.

"Bring it back. Now."

The elevator to Alexander's penthouse opened with a quiet chime.

Yes, penthouse.

Not his office. Not the conference room. No assistants. No board members. Just his private residence high above Manhattan, where the night wrapped around the windows like ink.

Isabella clutched the briefcase tightly as she stepped into the suite.

It was... breathtaking.

Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the entire skyline. Everything was dark wood, chrome, and black leather. Cold. Immaculate. Just like him.

Alexander stood by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other nursing a glass of whiskey. He didn't turn as she approached.

"You disobeyed me," he said simply.

Her voice was hoarse. "You sent me to a back-alley warehouse with no explanation. What was I supposed to think?"

He finally turned.

The look in his eyes was different this time. Not cold, not calculated, just... tired. Haunted.

"That wasn't for you," he said quietly. "It was meant for my attorney."

"I figured that out after I saw the photo."

He flinched.

She took a step forward, her tone softening. "I didn't mean to invade your privacy. But you're hiding so much pain, and you pretend like nothing can touch you."

"I don't pretend," he said sharply. "I don't let anything touch me."

Isabella felt the weight of that sentence.

She placed the briefcase gently on the counter between them. "I get it. You're a fortress. But even fortresses crack."

He stared at her for a long time. "You think you understand me now?"

"No," she whispered. "But I want to."

He moved closer, eyes locked on hers. The air between them shifted, charged, electric, unpredictable.

"You should be scared of me, Isabella," he murmured.

"Why?" she challenged. "Because you're broken? Or because you think I'll see it?"

Something flickered in his eyes. His jaw clenched.

"You're dangerously close to getting fired," he said instead.

She let out a dry laugh. "You're just mad I didn't play the silent, obedient assistant."

His lips quirked. Not quite a smile, but close. "No. I expected you to disappoint me. What's surprising... is that I don't want you to."

Her heart skipped.

Then, just like that, he turned away again. "Go home. Be on time tomorrow."

She lingered for a beat. "Alexander..."

"I said go."

The subway ride home was a blur of motion and neon lights.

Isabella sat with her knees pulled together, clutching her bag, her mind racing.

That moment in the penthouse... she couldn't explain it. He'd looked at her like she was more than just a pawn. Like he saw her. Like she mattered.

But that couldn't be true.

Could it?

Still, something in her chest had cracked open. For the first time since her father died, she wasn't just surviving.

She was... feeling again.

The next morning, Isabella arrived at Kane Technologies at 7:30 a.m.-half an hour early.

The receptionist raised a perfectly arched brow. "Look at you. Learning the rules."

Isabella didn't respond. She walked straight to her desk, organized everything with surgical precision, and brewed Alexander's preferred espresso without being asked.

By 7:59 a.m., she was ready.

At exactly 8:00, Alexander stepped out of the elevator, dressed in a dark gray suit that made him look even more untouchable.

He passed her without stopping.

But just before entering his office, he spoke over his shoulder.

"Keep that up, and I might actually believe you belong here."

It wasn't praise. Not really.

But for him?

It was close enough.

By mid-morning, her tasks were flowing. Emails, calendar adjustments, meeting prep, it all clicked. She wasn't perfect, but she was learning. Fast.

Just before noon, she knocked lightly on his office door.

"Yes?" came the clipped voice.

She stepped inside. "You have lunch with the Everlyn Group CEO at one."

"I canceled that. Reschedule for Thursday. Make sure it's private dining. I don't want press."

"Got it."

She turned to leave, but paused.

"Alexander... about last night..."

He didn't look up. "We don't talk about personal matters in this office."

"Of course," she said quietly.

"But thank you," he added after a beat.

She blinked.

Then smiled, just a little.

At 5:45 p.m., just as she was preparing to leave, her phone buzzed with an internal alert from the building.

Emergency alert: Security breach.

She frowned. What?

A second later, the receptionist called.

"Miss Sinclair. You need to come to the main lobby immediately."

"Why? What happened?"

"There's a woman here. She says she's your mother."

Isabella's blood ran cold.

"My... what?"

"She's screaming your name. Causing a scene. Security won't move her until you come down."

Isabella stared at the phone in disbelief.

Her mother? She hadn't heard from that woman in years, not since she ran off with a new husband and left Isabella and her father behind like yesterday's luggage.

What the hell was she doing here?

And how did she know where to find her?

Isabella grabbed her coat and bolted to the elevator, heart racing, nerves fraying. Because if her mother was here... it meant the past wasn't done with her yet.