CHAPTER SEVEN An Unwanted Alliance

Isabella had made three rules for herself when she became a journalist.

Never publish anything she could not verify.

Never let personal feelings interfere with a story.

And never trust a man simply because he looked at her with beautiful eyes.

The third rule had been added after a particularly disastrous relationship at university.

It had served her well.

Until Alexander Hayes.

She sat opposite him in the small meeting room, watching him examine the document she had brought. He had taken off his watch and placed it beside the papers, a habit she had noticed during their previous interview.

It was a strangely ordinary detail.

She wondered what else he did when he wasn't performing for the world.

Then she reminded herself that wondering about Alexander's private habits was not part of her assignment.

“Can I take a photograph of this?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Because I want someone to look at it.”

“Someone who works for Westbridge?”

“Someone who understands financial records.”

Isabella considered the suggestion.

“You realise I can't give you the original document.”

“I didn't ask for it.”

“And I won't agree to anything that interferes with my investigation.”

Alexander looked up.

“Do you think I want to interfere with your investigation?”

“I think you have a lot to lose if the investigation exposes wrongdoing at your club.”

“That's true.”

His straightforward answer surprised her.

He continued, “But I also have a lot to lose if someone is using false documents to destroy innocent people.”

“Innocent people?”

“My teammates. The coaching staff. The people who work here and have nothing to do with the club's finances.”

He paused.

“And perhaps your father.”

Isabella looked down at the paper.

She had not expected him to say that.

“I'm not asking you to protect him,” she said.

“I'm asking you not to condemn him before we know what happened.”

She felt a familiar sting of defensiveness.

“You don't know anything about my father.”

“No. But I know what it's like to have people decide who you are before they know the truth.”

Their eyes met.

For a moment, Isabella forgot the document between them.

She saw something in Alexander's expression that reminded her of her own father during the final months before he left.

Exhaustion.

Fear.

The desperate desire to explain something that could not be explained easily.

She looked away first.

“You can photograph the document,” she said. “But I want to know who examines it, and I want an independent copy of any findings.”

Alexander nodded.

“Agreed.”

She handed him the paper.

Their fingers brushed.

It was barely a touch, yet she became uncomfortably aware of how close they were sitting.

Alexander seemed to notice it too.

He drew his hand back.

“There's something else,” he said.

“What?”

“The photograph of us.”

Isabella stiffened.

“What about it?”

“I don't think it was random.”

“Neither do I.”

“Someone had to know where we would be standing.”

She thought of the training complex's security cameras, the restricted corridor, and the gossip account that had published the photograph.

“Could someone at the club have arranged it?”

“Possibly.”

“Who?”

“I don't know.”

She studied him.

“You really don't know much about what's happening inside your own club, do you?”

His jaw tightened.

“I play football, Isabella. I don't sit in meetings about financial transfers.”

“Yet you seem determined to protect Westbridge.”

“Because it's my home.”

The answer was immediate.

She fell silent.

Alexander leaned forward.

“I joined this club when I was eighteen. I spent years fighting for a place in the first team. When my father left, football was the only thing that made sense to me. My teammates became my family.”

He paused.

“If Westbridge is involved in something wrong, I want it exposed. But I won't stand by while innocent people are destroyed by rumours.”

Isabella looked at him for a long moment.

She had expected defensiveness.

She had expected another polished speech about teamwork and loyalty.

She had not expected him to speak about his father.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

His expression closed.

“That's not part of the investigation.”

“No,” she admitted. “It isn't.”

For a moment, she thought he might tell her anyway.

Instead, he picked up his watch and fastened it around his wrist.

“I'll arrange for someone independent to examine the document. If it appears genuine, we'll discuss the next step.”

“And if it doesn't?”

“Then we'll find out who sent it.”

She nodded.

It was not a perfect plan.

But it was a beginning.

They agreed to meet the following afternoon at a small café near Richmond Park.

Isabella insisted on choosing the location.

Alexander insisted on paying for his own coffee.

They argued about both decisions before sitting down.

“You're remarkably difficult,” he told her.

“And you're remarkably used to getting your own way.”

“I'm the captain.”

“And I'm not one of your players.”

His mouth curved into a smile.

“I had noticed.”

Isabella looked down at her cup before he could see her smile in return.

The café was quiet, with only a handful of customers occupying the tables near the windows. Outside, the trees moved gently in the wind, their leaves beginning to turn gold and brown.

Alexander had arrived wearing a black coat and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead.

He looked almost ordinary.

Almost.

A woman at the counter had recognised him immediately and spent several minutes pretending not to stare.

Isabella found it amusing.

“Do you ever get tired of being recognised everywhere you go?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you do about it?”

“Wear a cap.”

She laughed before she could stop herself.

Alexander looked pleased.

“There,” he said.

“What?”

“You do know how to laugh.”

“Don't sound so surprised.”

“I was beginning to think you were incapable of enjoying anything.”

“I enjoy plenty of things.”

“Such as?”

“Accurate reporting. Good coffee. People who answer questions properly.”

“That's a very exciting list.”

“I'm a very exciting person.”

He laughed.

The sound caught her off guard.

It was warmer than she expected, and for a moment, he looked nothing like the man who had walked out of their first interview.

Then he took a folder from his bag.

“The document has been examined by an independent financial consultant.”

Isabella's amusement disappeared.

“And?”

“The format is consistent with records used by the club at the time. But the signature hasn't been verified, and some information is missing.”

“So we still don't know whether it's genuine.”

“Not yet.”

She exhaled.

“Thank you for checking.”

“You're welcome.”

He slid another sheet across the table.

“There's something else. The company was registered to two directors. Richard Vale was one. The other was a man named Edward Mercer.”

Isabella frowned.

“Who is he?”

“A former financial adviser. He worked with several football clubs before leaving the industry.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“No. But the consultant found references to him in old financial reports.”

Isabella opened her notebook.

“Can I have a copy?”

“Of course.”

She studied the details, making careful notes.

For the next hour, they compared what they knew.

Isabella explained the anonymous emails, the photograph, and her father's refusal to speak about his departure from Westbridge. Alexander told her about the meetings with Richard Vale and the club's insistence that the players focus on football.

Neither had enough information to make an accusation.

But together, they had a clearer picture of the questions that needed answering.

When they finally packed their things, Isabella felt something unfamiliar.

Hope.

Not because the mystery was solved, but because she no longer felt as though she were chasing shadows alone.

Alexander walked her toward the café entrance.

“There's something I want you to understand,” he said.

She turned.

“This doesn't mean I trust you completely.”

“I would be disappointed if you did.”

“And it doesn't mean I'm going to stop investigating.”

“I wouldn't ask you to.”

She studied his face.

“Then what does it mean?”

He hesitated.

“It means I think we might be able to help each other.”

She considered that.

“An alliance?”

“If you like.”

“Temporary?”

“Probably.”

“Strictly professional?”

He looked at her for a moment longer than necessary.

“Of course.”

She nodded.

“Good.”

“Good.”

Neither moved.

Then Isabella stepped outside.

“See you around, Captain.”

He smiled.

“Try not to write anything terrible about me.”

“No promises.”

She walked toward the station without looking back.

But she could feel his gaze following her.

And for the first time since beginning the investigation, she wondered whether the greatest complication in the story might not be the financial scandal at all.

It might be the man who had just agreed to help her uncover it.

That evening, Alexander returned to the training complex to collect a pair of boots he had forgotten.

Most of the building was empty.

He passed the communications office and noticed light beneath Richard Vale's door.

Voices drifted into the corridor.

“She's asking about Mercer,” Victoria said.

Alexander stopped.

Vale replied, too quietly for him to hear.

Then Victoria spoke again.

“The photograph has made things worse. If she continues, people will start asking why someone wanted to discredit her.”

Alexander moved closer.

He knew he should keep walking.

He also knew that if he did, he might never hear another honest conversation about the investigation.

“She doesn't have enough evidence yet,” Vale said. “And she won't get any more if we manage this properly.”

“What about the captain?”

“He needs to concentrate on football.”

Alexander felt his hands tighten.

The same words.

The same dismissal.

Victoria lowered her voice.

“And if he starts asking questions?”

There was a pause.

“Then remind him what is at stake.”

Alexander stepped away before they could discover him.

He walked quickly toward the exit, his mind racing.

What exactly was at stake?

His career?

The club?

Or something that had happened seven years earlier, something connected to Thomas Reed and a company that should have been forgotten?

He reached his car and sat behind the wheel.

For several minutes, he did not start the engine.

Then he took out his phone and opened Isabella's contact details, which he had obtained through the newspaper's official correspondence.

He typed a message.

I overheard a conversation at the club. Vale and Victoria are discussing the investigation. I think we need to talk.

He hesitated before pressing send.

Then he added another sentence.

I don't think we can trust the club's official explanation.

He sent the message.

Across London, Isabella was sitting at her desk when her phone lit up.

She read the message twice.

Then she looked at the documents spread across her table.

For the first time, the investigation was beginning to feel less like a story she was chasing and more like a secret that was determined to drag them both into its depths.