Chapter 4

The invitation arrived that morning, thick with embossed gold lettering, exuding the kind of opulence that made Bella feel simultaneously thrilled and out of place. Alexander Moreau tossed it onto her desk without ceremony, his tailored coat brushing the edge as if the extravagance of Parisian high society were no more consequential than a routine memo.

“You’ll accompany me,” he said, voice clipped, leaving no room for negotiation.

Bella blinked down at the card, tracing the gilded letters with her eyes. A gala at the Hôtel Le Meurice, an evening of champagne, chandeliers, and whispered elegance she had only glimpsed in magazines. She wanted to protest, to remind him she was his assistant, not a social companion, but the words lodged stubbornly in her throat. Alexander’s gaze held hers just long enough for her to know refusal was impossible.

By evening, Bella stood before the mirror in her modest Paris apartment, smoothing the folds of a borrowed navy gown. The city below shimmered, every lamppost and street corner gleaming as if conspiring with the gala’s allure. She inhaled slowly, willing herself calm. She had attended countless meetings, client dinners, and presentations at his side, but tonight felt different, something indefinable hovered in the air between them.

When Alexander entered, immaculate in black tuxedo and commanding presence, her breath caught. He filled the room without moving, the sharpness of his jaw softened by the elegance of his attire. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if he saw her differently tonight, the way his eyes lingered, just a fraction longer than necessary, before the curt nod of acknowledgment.

“You’ll do,” he said softly. His words should have grounded her in her role, but instead, they sent an unfamiliar flutter through her chest.

The gala unfolded like a symphony of crystal and velvet. Bella stayed a careful half-step behind Alexander, rehearsing her role: attentive, unobtrusive, quiet. Yet whispers swirled around them like invisible currents.

“There he is, the Ice King.”

“And with an assistant? Fascinating.”

Heat crept into her cheeks, uncertainty gnawing at her composure. Alexander moved through the crowd like a general surveying a battlefield. Confident, untouchable but not immune to tension.

“She’s here,” Alexander murmured, eyes narrowing slightly.

Bella followed his gaze. A woman approached, striking and poised, with the kind of elegance that could belong only on magazine covers. Scarlet silk traced her form, and her smile carried just enough charm to unsettle.

“Isabelle,” Alexander said flatly, his voice devoid of warmth.

Bella froze. The name alone exuded danger and history. She didn’t need explanation—Isabelle was from his past.

“Still brooding, I see,” Isabelle murmured, soft and measured, meant to disarm. “Three years, isn’t it?”

Alexander’s jaw tightened, eyes cold shards. “Three.”

The tension rippled, drawing Bella into invisible shadows. Isabelle’s gaze flicked toward her briefly, assessing, calculating.

“And you’ve found yourself a new accessory,” she said smoothly. “Charming. Simple, but pretty.”

Bella flushed, biting her cheek. Alexander’s hand twitched at his side, yet his face remained carefully unreadable.

“She’s my assistant,” he said sharply, the word meant to define boundaries. Instead, it felt like a blade tracing her chest. Bella’s gaze dropped, pretending to admire the gilded doorway, but every nerve was alert.

Isabelle laughed lightly. “Of course. You never did like being alone, did you, darling?”

Alexander’s response was clipped, final. “Enjoy your evening, Isabelle.”

He guided Bella away before she could breathe fully, his hand brushing the small of her back—not enough to draw attention, but enough to anchor her. Her heart raced, reckless in its rhythm.

The gala blurred as they moved through it. Bella smiled when required, noted conversations and agreements with quiet efficiency, but her thoughts circled Isabelle: her elegance, the hint of venom in her smile, and the momentary crack in Alexander’s otherwise impenetrable armor.

In the sleek black car outside, silence filled the space between them. Paris glittered beyond the glass, yet no words came.

“She seemed… important,” Bella ventured, voice tentative.

Alexander’s jaw tightened. “She was nothing.”

But his gaze on the passing streets betrayed the lie.

“Nothing doesn’t leave shadows that deep,” Bella said softly, testing the ground.

He finally turned to her, expression rawer than she had seen, voice ragged. “She betrayed me deeply. In ways you cannot imagine. And I do not make the same mistake twice.”

Her chest constricted at the bitterness behind his words. She wanted to pry, to understand the darkness she glimpsed, but his eyes warned her off.

“For what it’s worth,” she said gently, “I don’t think everyone is like her.”

His eyes softened for a fleeting second, just enough to reveal the man beneath the ice. Then the mask slid back, flawless.

Later, in the quiet of his office, Alexander poured whiskey, golden light catching the glass. Bella organized notes across the room, pretending focus, yet every sense clung to him.

“You should go home,” he said without meeting her eyes.

“And leave you to brood alone?” she countered.

A twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile. “You’re bolder than most.”

“Or foolish,” she whispered, though her heart hammered.

He studied her, eyes unreadable, then asked, low and deliberate: “Why are you still here, Bella?”

The question hovered, heavier than glittering chandeliers, heavier than Isabelle’s mocking elegance. She opened her mouth, closed it again. For the job? To prove herself? Or because, despite every warning, she couldn’t turn away from the Ice King?

Finally, she said simply, “Because you haven’t dismissed me yet.”

A flicker, amusement, admiration, perhaps something softer, passed his gaze. He sipped whiskey, eyes never leaving hers.

For the first time, Bella glimpsed the man beneath the ice. And it terrified her as much as it drew her in.

That night, Paris outside her window seemed sharper, brighter, charged with possibility. Yet questions lingered, persistent and silent: Who was Alexander Moreau, really? And why, against all warnings, did she want to be the one to melt the shadows he carried?