Chapter 28 Unspoken Edges
Isabella’s POV
“Come back soon,” she said brightly. “Promise me.”
“Soon,” I replied. My voice sounded distant, even to me.
Ava gave me a small nod. Her eyes studied me, like she was still trying to figure something out.
James clapped Alexander on the back. “Don’t rush back too fast,” he said with a grin. “You two need privacy. Lock the doors. Ignore your phones.”
Alexander gave him a short look. “Noted.”
His hand moved to my lower back. Firm. Guiding. He led me outside.
The night air was cold. The black car waited at the curb. The driver stepped forward with the keys, but Alexander shook his head.
“I’ll drive.”
He took the keys and opened the passenger door for me. He didn’t speak. He just looked at me, waiting. I got in. The leather seat was cold against my legs. He shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side.
The engine started. We pulled away from the house.
The car was quiet.
I stared out the window. Streetlights passed in a blur. My hands were tight in my lap. He said nothing. I said nothing.
The silence in the car felt thick.
Then he spoke.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I turned toward him. “For what?”
“For your father,” he replied, eyes fixed on the road. His jaw was tight. “I’m sorry he’s gone.”
I stared at him. I hadn’t expected that.
But the words didn’t feel right. They felt controlled. Careful.
Images flashed in my mind. The man at the pier. The gunshot. His hand around my throat. His threats.
This wasn’t kindness. It felt like strategy.
Anger pushed past the shock.
“Men like you probably killed him,” I said. My voice was sharp. “Men who think lives don’t matter. Men who shoot without thinking. I don’t need your apology. You’re the same. Cold. A killer.”
His body went completely still.
“You think I’m just some killer who walks around shooting people for no reason?” he asked.
I kept my eyes on the window. “I don’t think. I know. I saw what you did. I felt what you’re capable of.”
“You don’t know what I am,” he said.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t snap.
He just sounded tired.
I glanced at him. I expected rage.
Instead, his face looked tight. Not furious. Just tense. His eyes were darker, but not wild. His hands gripped the wheel harder.
For a second, he looked almost hurt.
Then it was gone.
His expression went flat again.
Neither of us spoke after that.
The city lights passed outside the window. The closer we got to the penthouse, the heavier the silence felt.