Chapter 117
Isabella’s assistants had finished dressing her in the outfit for the Auto Show.
She sat motionless in her chair, like a statue carved from ice.
Nathaniel strode toward her without hesitation.
He leaned in close, his presence overwhelming.
His fingers brushed against the zipper of her form-fitting leather top.
With one sharp tug, he pulled it all the way up to her throat.
The gesture was possessive, almost territorial.
Her slender neck disappeared beneath the black leather.
Nathaniel’s gaze was intense, his voice low and commanding.
“The Mercedes Auto Show is an elite event,” he stated coldly.
“There’s no need to reveal so much skin.”
A collective gasp swept through the room.
No one could believe what they had just witnessed.
Nathaniel Blackwood—the untouchable, ruthless billionaire—had just publicly claimed Isabella Montgomery.
His words dripped with jealousy and ownership.
This wasn’t just professional interest.
This was personal.
The rumors were true.
He was involved with her.
Isabella shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
Every other model was wearing revealing outfits—deep V-necks, tube tops, barely-there fabrics.
And here she was, zipped up like a nun.
Was he trying to humiliate her?
Or mark his territory in front of everyone?
Archibald Worthington sensed the rising tension.
If this continued, the other models would revolt.
He quickly stepped forward, trying to diffuse the situation.
“Mr. Blackwood,” he said nervously, “the show begins in twenty minutes.
The front stage is ready.
Everyone is waiting for you.”
Nathaniel’s eyes lingered on Isabella.
Even fully covered, her curves were unmistakable.
The tight leather hugged every inch of her body.
She looked both innocent and dangerously seductive.
A mistake, he thought.
Letting her participate was a mistake.
He straightened up, his expression turning glacial.
His voice cut through the room like a blade.
“Isabella is under my protection,” he announced.
“Anyone who targets her will answer to me.”
The threat hung heavy in the air.
Without another word, he turned and walked away.
His entourage scrambled after him, relief and fear on their faces.
Isabella stared after him, stunned.
Why did he keep inserting himself into her life?
Why this constant, infuriating attention?
“He’s gone,” sneered Genevieve Laurent.
“Stop staring.
You think Nathaniel Blackwood actually cares about you?
He’s toying with you.
You’re just a passing amusement.”
Isabella snapped out of her daze.
She shot Genevieve a withering look.
“At least he’s amused,” she retorted.
“You can’t even get his attention.”
With that, she swept out of the room.
She had no patience for petty jealousy.
The other models seethed with envy.
Seraphina Delacroix in particular looked ready to claw Isabella’s eyes out.
But no one dared act.
Not after Nathaniel’s warning.
Not when she had his backing.
The backstage atmosphere turned icy.
Victoria Kensington felt her jealousy burning like acid.
She glared daggers at Isabella’s retreating figure.
Her agent, Isadora Vasquez, gave her a sympathetic look before heading out.
She returned moments later with twelve bottles of chilled juice.
“Ladies, let’s not fight,” she said soothingly.
“We’re all here to work.
It’s a hot day—have something to drink and cool down.
The show starts soon.”
She began distributing the drinks.
The models, still furious but momentarily distracted, accepted them.
Compared to Isabella, Victoria didn’t seem so bad anymore.
After handing out the juices, Isadora approached Isabella with a bottle of orange juice in hand.
She smiled warmly.
“Here,” she said.
“You look like you could use this.”