Roman Volkov's face had turned ashen. I'd never seen someone so dangerous look so utterly terrified. One of his men—clearly not understanding the situation—stepped forward with a smirk, eyeing Isabelle.
"Boss, who cares who this chick is? She's hot, but—"
"Shut up!" Roman roared, backhanding the man so hard he stumbled backward. "Do you have any idea who you're talking about?" His voice dropped to a frantic whisper. "That's Isabelle Ashworth, you fool!"
The thug rubbed his jaw, still looking confused. "So what? Some rich girl from—"
"Even the Magistrate from Eldoria Province stands when she enters a room," Roman hissed. "The Mayor of Havenwood City personally answers her calls, day or night."
My mind reeled. Who exactly was Isabelle? I knew her family was powerful, but this level of fear from someone like Roman Volkov was incomprehensible.
Isabelle's expression remained chillingly calm. "Your man seems to have a poor understanding of respect, Mr. Volkov."
"I apologize for his stupidity, Miss Ashworth," Roman said, his voice trembling. "He will be severely disciplined."
Isabelle tilted her head slightly. "But not here, and not now. You're still standing."
The implication was crystal clear. Without hesitation, Roman dropped to one knee before her, head bowed. His men exchanged shocked glances before hastily following his example.
"I swear on my life, he will pay for his disrespect," Roman said, not daring to look up. "And I... I had no idea Mr. Knight was under your protection. It was an unforgivable mistake."
"Mistakes have consequences," Isabelle replied, her voice soft but somehow more frightening for it.
Roman nodded frantically. Then, in a move that left me stunned, he pulled a knife from his jacket. Before I could react, he plunged it into his own thigh. His face contorted in pain, but he didn't make a sound.
"My sincerest apologies, Miss Ashworth. To both you and Mr. Knight," he gasped, blood seeping through his expensive pants. "It won't happen again."
"I should hope not," Isabelle said, seemingly unmoved by the display. "You may leave now."
"Thank you for your mercy," Roman breathed, struggling to his feet, his wounded leg barely supporting his weight. He motioned to his men, who scrambled backwards toward their cars, not turning their backs to us until they reached the gate.
When the last vehicle peeled away, I finally found my voice. "What the hell was that?"
Isabelle's demeanor transformed instantly. The icy authority that had terrified Roman melted away, replaced by the warm, playful woman I was beginning to know.
"That was Roman Volkov learning a lesson in manners," she said, brushing an invisible speck from her sleeve. "Now, I believe you owe me."
"Owe you?" I spluttered, still trying to process what I'd witnessed.
"For saving your legs from being broken," she explained with a mischievous smile. "I think you should treat me to a meal as thanks."
The whiplash of her mood shift left me disoriented. One minute she was making a crime lord stab himself, the next she was asking for food like a friend.
"I... don't have any money," I admitted, embarrassed. "I spent everything on those herbs you threw away."
Isabelle's eyes sparkled. "Then cook for me. I bet you make something delicious."
Twenty minutes later, I stood in my kitchen, preparing the simplest meal I could with my limited ingredients. Isabelle perched on a stool, watching me with genuine interest as I worked.
"My mother taught me this recipe before she died," I explained, mixing sauce for the noodles. "It's nothing fancy, but it's filling."
"I appreciate simple food made with care," Isabelle said, resting her chin on her palm. "In my world, every meal is an elaborate performance. Sometimes I just want noodles without a five-piece orchestra playing in the background."
I chuckled, stirring the pot. "Well, the only music here is the boiling water."
"Perfect," she replied with a sincerity that warmed me.
As I worked, questions bubbled up that I couldn't suppress. "Isabelle, what Roman said about you... is it true? About the Magistrate and the Mayor?"
She sighed, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "My family has... influence. Sometimes it can be useful. Other times, it's a burden."
"That's an understatement," I muttered, plating the noodles. "Normal influential people don't make criminals stab themselves."
"Roman Volkov is hardly an innocent," she countered. "He's hurt countless people. A knife in his leg is mild compared to what he deserves."
I couldn't argue with that. Placing the steaming bowl before her, I watched nervously as she took her first bite. Her eyes widened.
"This is fantastic!" she exclaimed, quickly taking another mouthful. "You've been hiding culinary talents along with your alchemy skills."
Pride swelled in my chest at her genuine enthusiasm. "Seraphina always said my cooking was barely tolerable. One of her favorite complaints was that I couldn't even earn money as a chef."
Isabelle's expression darkened momentarily at the mention of my ex-wife. "Seraphina Sterling wouldn't recognize quality if it slapped her in her surgically enhanced face," she stated flatly, then continued eating with gusto.
I leaned against the counter, watching her enjoy the simple meal. "It was one of her main criticisms—that I couldn't earn decent money. 'A real man provides,' she'd say."
Putting down her chopsticks, Isabelle fixed me with an intense gaze. "Money is just paper and numbers, Liam. It's the easiest thing in the world to acquire if you're ruthless enough. What's rare is someone with genuine talent and a good heart."
Her words struck me somewhere deep. After years of having my worth measured solely by my bank account, hearing someone—especially someone clearly wealthy beyond imagining—dismiss money so casually was jarring.
"You really believe that?" I asked softly.
"I've seen the richest men in this country grovel for a moment of my grandfather's attention," she said, her voice taking on that authoritative edge again. "I've watched billionaires weep when denied what they want. Trust me, Liam, money doesn't make the man. Character does. And from what I've seen, you have that in abundance."
No one had ever spoken to me with such conviction about my worth. Not my ex-wife, not her family, not even my own departed parents. I felt something crack inside me—some barrier built from years of belittlement and scorn.
Isabelle must have seen something in my expression, because her features softened. She reached across the counter and briefly touched my hand, a gesture so simple yet so powerful it made my heart race.
"Your noodles are getting cold," I managed to say, pulling my hand back before she could feel it trembling.
She smiled knowingly but returned to her meal. When she finished, she sat back with a satisfied sigh. Then, with a bright grin that transformed her from intimidating heiress to something much more dangerously charming, she pushed her empty bowl toward me.
"Can I have another bowl?"
I stared at her, utterly mystified by this woman who could terrify hardened criminals one moment and ask for seconds like an eager child the next. Who exactly was Isabelle Ashworth, and what did she want from me?