Chapter 38: A Close Encounter With Him

Without hesitation, Katherine thrust the baby back toward Isobel.

The crying stopped almost immediately. An awkward silence followed.

Determined not to give up, Katherine turned toward Anna and reached for Baby Kristoffer instead.

If she couldn’t carry one twin, she would carry the other.

After all, standing beside Morgan for a photograph—even briefly—was worth the effort.

Kristoffer didn’t cry.

Unfortunately, he had other plans.

The moment Katherine lifted him, he began squirming wildly.

Twisting and kicking his tiny feet. His arms flailing.

Morgan’s brows furrowed.

"Give him to me."

His voice carried a hint of irritation.

Before Katherine could respond, he stepped forward and lifted his son from her arms.

The baby immediately settled. Then Morgan turned toward Isobel.

With Kristoffer balanced effortlessly in one arm, he extended his free hand toward her.

"Come."

The gesture was simple and natural. As though he had done it countless times before.

Isobel hesitated. She was holding Kirsten with both arms and could not hold unto him. So Morgan, guided her up the steps leading to the stage.

Kirsten remained obediently leaning against her shoulder.

Katherine followed behind them, her smile stiff and brittle. A few executives and influential guests joined them.

But Kristoff barely noticed anyone else. His eyes remained fixed on Isobel.

And they narrowed.

Morgan’s hand remained at the small of her back as he helped her onto the stage.

One arm carried their son. The other steadied her.

Together with the twins, they looked like a family of four.

The realization darkened Kristoff’s mood instantly.

Charlotte noticed. So did Mary. By then, Mary had already returned to her seat, so she had a good view of what was happening on the stage.

"Kristoff."

Charlotte’s voice was carefully controlled.

"You seem distracted."

Kristoff looked at her.

The hardness in his expression immediately softened.

"I’m not."

He offered a small smile.

"I’m simply looking at our guests."

Charlotte wanted to believe him.

Unfortunately, she had followed his gaze too many times that evening and she knew where it landed.

The photographer began arranging everyone into position.

"Closer together, please."

People shuffled around. Then, somehow, fate played another cruel joke.

Kristoff found himself standing directly beside Isobel. Morgan stood on Isobel’s other side.

For a brief moment, neither Kristoff nor Isobel spoke.

The proximity felt unbearable.

Charlotte’s eyes flashed.

"How about Kristoff and I switch places?" Charlotte suggested with a bright, effortless smile. "I think it would balance the photograph better."

The photographer studied the arrangement for a moment before nodding.

"Good idea."

Without waiting for anyone else’s opinion, Charlotte smoothly stepped between them.

She immediately slipped her arm through Kristoff’s, her fingers curling possessively around his sleeve.

The gesture appeared affectionate to onlookers.

But Isobel knew better.

It was a declaration. A warning to her. A challenge.

He is mine.

Then Charlotte’s other hand settled lightly on Isobel’s arm, as though guiding her into position for the photograph.

To everyone else, it looked perfectly natural and friendly.

But the pressure gradually increased. Until Charlotte’s nails dug into her skin.

A sharp sting shot through Isobel’s arm.

The smile on Charlotte’s face never wavered as camera flashes illuminated the stage.

Yet the force of her grip made one thing abundantly clear.

The photograph wasn’t the reason Charlotte had moved.

...

Isobel stared at her reflection in the mirror. Slowly, her gaze dropped to her right arm.

A dark purple bruise had already begun to bloom where Charlotte’s fingers had dug into her skin. She rubbed the tender spot gently, trying to ease the ache and restore circulation.

Earlier, she had handed Kirsten to Ella before slipping away to the restroom.

The truth was, she hadn’t needed the restroom. She simply needed to escape.

The ballroom had become suffocating. Watching Kristoff stand beside Charlotte...watching them hold Alex together...watching them smile like a happy family, Isobel felt she could not breathe.

Every second had felt like a knife twisting deeper into an old wound.

Isobel closed her eyes and drew in a long, steady breath.

When she opened them again, her reflection stared back at her.

Pale. Tired. Pathetic.

"It is your fault," she whispered to herself.

"Kristoff warned you."

A bitter smile tugged at her lips.

"He was clear from the very beginning."

Another deep breath.

Then she straightened her shoulders and left the restroom.

The corridor outside was quiet, the sounds of laughter and music from the ballroom reduced to a distant hum.

She walked slowly toward the main hall, her thoughts elsewhere.

Then suddenly, a door to her right swung open. A powerful hand shot out and pulled her inside.

Isobel’s heart lurched. A scream rose in her throat.

But before she could make a sound, a strong hand covered her mouth.

"Don’t shout. It’s me."

A second later, she heard the unmistakable click of a lock. The sound echoed through the dim meeting room.

Isobel froze. Her eyes widened.

She knew that voice.

And that scent...

A familiar oriental-woody fragrance wrapped around her, warm sandalwood layered with crisp bergamot.

A scent that had once lingered on her sheets. A scent she had spent three months trying to forget.

Even with her eyes closed, she would have recognized it.

"Kristoff?"

"Yes." His voice was rough. Hoarse.

"Yes, it’s me, Isobel."

Her breath caught.

Their faces were only inches apart. So close that she could feel the warmth of his breath brushing against her skin.

The room suddenly felt too small. Too hot.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice unsteady.

Confusion flashed across her face.

Shouldn’t he be in the ballroom?

The guest of honor. The Fiancé . The father celebrating his son’s third-month milestone.

Instead, he was here.

Kristoff let out a humorless laugh.

"I should be the one asking you that."

His jaw tightened.

For a moment, he looked as though he were struggling to keep his emotions under control.

Then the questions burst out.

"You disappeared without saying goodbye."

His voice dropped lower.

"You left your things at the villa."

His eyes locked onto hers.

"And why are you with Morgan Foster?"

The last question came out sharper than the others.

More demanding. More personal.

As though that was the one answer he wanted most.

As though that was the one thing he couldn’t stop thinking about.