Alex sat in his office, staring blankly at the documents in front of him. Numbers, business deals, and contracts that would normally hold his full attention blurred together as his thoughts wandered. He slammed the folder shut, frustrated with himself. His mind was no longer his own, it seemed. No matter how much he tried to focus on work, to immerse himself in the only thing that made sense to him—control, power, loyalty—his thoughts kept circling back to her.
Isabella.
The woman who had turned his carefully crafted world upside down. The woman he couldn't stop thinking about, despite everything he told himself. Despite all the reasons he should despise her.
She was a weak link, a complication he had never anticipated. A woman scorned by her family, cast out like a pariah, and burdened with the scandal of her past. A disease to her own country, he reminded himself, as if repeating it would somehow change the way he felt.
He hated that he couldn't seem to shake her presence from his mind. That, even now, he could picture her with perfect clarity—the way she furrowed her brow when she worked, the soft movements of her hands as she typed, the way her hair fell over her shoulders when she was lost in thought. He hated how he found himself stealing glances at her, watching her without her ever knowing. Whether it was while she ate her quiet meals, worked beside him, or even while she slept in her room, he couldn't stop himself.
What is wrong with me? he asked himself for the hundredth time. This isn't love. It can't be.
Alex had always believed love was for the weak. It was a vulnerability, a crack in the armor that could be exploited. He had watched his father sacrifice everything—his freedom, his dignity—for the sake of a woman who didn't even love him back. That kind of foolishness wasn't in Alex's nature. He had sworn to himself long ago that he would never fall into the same trap. Loyalty was the only currency that mattered. Loyalty, strength, and control.
But this… this thing between him and Isabella… it wasn't love. It couldn't be. It was something else—an infuriating, irrational attachment that he couldn't quite explain. And yet, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that she was nothing more than a temporary fixture in his life, his body betrayed him.
He would find himself awake at night, restless, wondering what she was thinking, wondering if she felt the same strange pull that he did. He would catch himself staring at her from across the room, wondering what it would be like to reach out and touch her, to break down the walls he had built around himself for so long.
But then he would remind himself that she was nothing. A woman whose family had cast her aside. A woman who had no power, no leverage, no value beyond the contract that bound them. She was supposed to be a pawn, a placeholder until the time came for them to part ways.
So why, then, did the idea of letting her go fill him with a sense of dread?
Alex clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He refused to call it love. He couldn't call it love. Love was for men who were weak, men who lost control of themselves and their lives. Alex had worked too hard to maintain his empire, his reputation, his iron grip on everything he touched. Love was a distraction, a threat to everything he had built.
And yet, when he was around Isabella, that control felt like it was slipping.
He tried to push the feelings away, to remind himself of her flaws. She was a woman who had been humiliated by her own blood, a woman who had been accused of an affair with her sister's husband, a woman whose reputation was tarnished. She was a weak human being, unworthy of the life he had given her, unworthy of his attention.
But even as he thought it, a part of him knew it was a lie. He had seen something in her in Brazil—a fire, a resilience she didn't even seem to know she possessed. She wasn't as weak as he had once thought. In fact, she was stronger than most people would ever give her credit for. She had survived, against all odds, and that strength drew him to her like a moth to a flame.
But admitting that would be admitting weakness in himself. And Alex Gray did not allow weakness.
He pushed back from his desk, standing abruptly. The silence of his office was suffocating, and he needed air. He walked to the window, staring out at the Tokyo skyline, the city lights twinkling like stars against the night sky.
He had to regain control. He had to stop whatever this was before it destroyed everything he had built. Before it destroyed him.
But as he stood there, his mind wandered back to Isabella. He thought of her lying in bed, alone, likely staring at the ceiling just as he had so many nights before. He wondered if she missed him, if she felt the same strange emptiness that gnawed at him every time he walked away from her.
He shook his head, frustrated with himself. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to care. And yet, no matter how hard he tried to deny it, the truth was becoming harder to ignore.
He did care. And that terrified him.
Alex closed his eyes, his hands gripping the windowsill. He didn't want to feel this way. He didn't want to want her. But no matter how much he tried to fight it, the pull between them was undeniable.
But he wasn't ready to call it love. Not yet.
Because love wasn't for men like him. It wasn't for men who lived in shadows, who thrived on control and power. It wasn't for men who had built walls around their hearts so high that no one could climb them.
And yet, in the quiet moments, when no one was watching, Alex allowed himself to wonder—just for a second—what it would be like if those walls came down.
But only for a second.