An Offer with No strings

Chapter 5: An Offer with No Strings

Despite every warning bell ringing in her head, Isabella found herself sitting across from Eleanor Whitmore, one of the most respected art curators in the city. The woman exuded elegance—her sleek gray hair was neatly pinned back, and her sharp eyes assessed Isabella with a mix of curiosity and approval.

Isabella sat stiffly, her fingers curling around the armrest of her chair. She hadn’t come here for pleasantries. She wanted answers.

“I must say, Miss Carter,” Eleanor began, adjusting her reading glasses as she flipped through Isabella’s portfolio, “your work speaks volumes. It carries an honesty that is rare to find these days.”

Isabella’s stomach twisted. Honesty. That word felt ironic, given the circumstances.

She cleared her throat. “I’m honored, but with all due respect… why now?”

Eleanor smiled, as if she had been expecting the question. “Because sometimes, it takes the right eyes to see what has always been there.”

That answer didn’t sit right with Isabella. It was too polished, too smooth.

Taking a deep breath, she decided to be blunt. “Did Alexander Drake arrange this?”

Eleanor leaned back in her chair, lacing her fingers together. She didn’t deny it.

“What I will say is that Alexander may have… drawn attention to your work. But my decision? That was entirely my own.”

Isabella’s heart pounded. She had suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed left her feeling exposed, conflicted.

“Miss Carter,” Eleanor continued, “you have something special. Whether you choose to believe it or not, this opportunity is yours. No strings attached.”

No strings?

That was hard to believe.

Isabella exhaled slowly. She should have felt relief, excitement even. This was everything she had wanted—recognition, a chance to finally prove herself.

But why did it feel like she was walking into a trap?

That evening, she found herself standing in front of Alexander’s office, tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for his assistant to let her in.

The moment the door opened, she strode inside, not bothering with formalities.

Alexander was seated behind his massive mahogany desk, scrolling through something on his tablet. He barely looked up.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he said, his voice laced with amusement.

Isabella crossed her arms. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

At that, he finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. “Care to be more specific?”

She stepped closer, frustration bubbling up. “The curator. The sudden interest in my work. You pulled strings.”

Alexander sighed, setting his tablet down. “I told you before—I wasn’t offering charity.”

She scoffed. “Then what do you call this?”

He leaned back in his chair, watching her carefully. “A nudge in the right direction.”

Her fists clenched. “I don’t need handouts, Alexander.”

His expression darkened slightly. “And I didn’t give you one.”

Isabella faltered at the quiet steel in his voice.

He exhaled, rubbing his temple as if she was exhausting him. “Look, I meant what I said. I want nothing in return.”

She studied him, searching for any trace of deception.

His gaze remained calm, steady.

“…Why help me?” she asked, her voice quieter this time.

A pause. Then, almost too softly, he said, “Because I believe in you.”

The sincerity in his voice unsettled her more than any lie would have.

She had spent years fighting to prove herself, to make it without anyone’s help. And yet, here was Alexander Drake, a man who owed her nothing, telling her that she was worth believing in.

For the first time since meeting him, Isabella didn’t know what to say.

And that scared her more than anything else.

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