Chapter 6: Miss Turner, Such a Wide Gap

Upon hearing the name Miss Turner, Alexander Smith's cool and expressionless eyes instinctively glanced toward the entrance of the dining room. When his gaze met Isabella Turner's face, he quickly withdrew it, furrowing his brow in displeasure and shooting his birth mother a disapproving look.

Henry Smith wasn't thrilled either; it was supposed to be a family banquet, and Isabella Turner's presence seemed out of place. However, in Mrs. Smith's eyes, Isabella Turner was no outsider but the daughter-in-law she had chosen. So, of course, she had to attend, even if it meant adding an extra chair.

Without expressing their disapproval openly, the face-saving individuals simply arranged for an additional seat. The patriarch, seeing an outsider present, made no further comments and promptly announced the beginning of the meal.

Isabella Turner was seated next to Alexander Smith, and after exchanging pleasantries with the elders, she quietly inquired why Alexander Smith hadn't replied to her messages.

Alexander Smith, oblivious to her, consumed his food as if an additional person had not joined the table. For him, the past five years had rendered all meals tasteless; each day, he longed to return to that moment five years ago, just to savor another bite of Jessica Turner's green pepper stir-fry, to hold her once again. He even regretted not holding onto her underwater; even if it meant death, he wished to be with her.

Isabella Turner had grown accustomed to Alexander Smith's indifference, believing that even a stone could be warmed someday. Assisted by Mrs. Smith, she was confident that she would soon occupy the position of Mrs. Smith Jr.

After the meal, the second son's family bid farewell to the patriarch and left, as the old mansion was reserved for the first son and grandson. Citing the late hour, Mrs. Smith insisted on keeping Isabella Turner, giving her a meaningful look and hinting that she should exert extra effort later that night.

Isabella Turner blushed with shyness but couldn't hide her inner delight. She had waited too long for this day.

As soon as Mrs. Smith left, Isabella Turner sneaked into the kitchen. Quietly, she added a substance to the coffee intended for Alexander Smith's room. With this concoction, she was certain that Alexander Smith would not resist her.

At ten o'clock that night, while Alexander Smith was engrossed in reviewing contracts in his room, he suddenly felt a surge of heat in his body. It was inexplicable, uncontrollable, and decidedly abnormal. As a top-tier tycoon, such experiences were not new to him; he immediately recognized what was happening.

Damn it!

He had been poisoned in his own home.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door.

It was easy to deduce that the person who had poisoned him had come to collect their dues.

Without uttering a word, Alexander Smith, with a dark expression, stared at the door. He was curious to see who dared to be so audacious.

Isabella Turner, outside the door, didn't wait for a response. She opened the door crisply and walked in.

Fresh from a shower, she wore a pristine bathrobe, with nothing underneath. Despite her charming façade, Alexander Smith's cold gaze met her, and Isabella Turner's heart fluttered. Had he not drunk the coffee?

Tilting her head playfully, she put on a cute smile and said, "Alexander, I brought you some fruit. I cut it myself."

Alexander Smith didn't expect it to be Isabella Turner; he thought it might be a bold maid.

"Who allowed you to stay?" Alexander Smith's eyes were cold, and his voice, as emotionless as usual, betrayed no sentiment. The sweat on his forehead, however, gave away his condition.

Seeing the sweat, Isabella Turner knew she had succeeded. Despite her seemingly innocent appearance, her face suddenly turned seductive.

Isabella Turner swayed her hips, approaching Alexander Smith. Bending down to place the fruit tray on the table, her loosely-fitted neckline opened wide, revealing ample cleavage. Alexander Smith, though handsome, only showed disgust, bluntly saying, "Leave immediately."

"I won't!" Ignoring his order, she circled the table, sat next to Alexander Smith, and wrapped her arm around his waist. With a twist, she loosened her robe, revealing everything underneath. "Alexander, can't you even spare a glance for me after five years? I have feelings for you—"

Alexander Smith, infuriated, pushed her away forcefully, standing up and scolding, "Shameless. Even if you strip naked in front of me, I won't touch you with a finger."

Isabella Turner, seeing the disgust in his eyes, was overjoyed. Despite putting on a show of grievance, she slowly stood up. Holding the belt of her robe, she teasingly pulled it open. "Alexander, I know you want this. I—"

Before Isabella Turner could finish her sentence, Alexander Smith turned and slammed the door.

She rushed forward to hug him, but her long robe belt tripped her, and she fell outside the door, lying naked on the floor.

On the other end of the corridor stood two astonished men: Smith's patriarch and Alexander Smith's father.

After a scream, Isabella Turner, still in her robe, hurried back to her room.

Shaking his head, the Smith patriarch gave his son a stern look. Unhappy, he remarked, "Look at the mess your wife has made. No wonder Alexander rarely comes home."

Alexander Smith's father forced a smile. What could he say? He dared not defy the patriarch, nor could he contradict his wife. He could only remain silent.

Instead of returning to his usual residence at Galaxy Apartments, Alexander Smith went to Quentin Reed's medical research institute. Quentin Reed, waiting at the institute's entrance, sighed when he saw the disheveled man stumbling out of the car. He walked over to support him. "Why go through this trouble? Wouldn't it be simpler to find a woman to detoxify you?"

Alexander Smith didn't respond, concentrating on controlling his mind with formidable willpower.

After taking the antidote and soaking in ice water for half an hour, Alexander Smith's condition improved. Now able to communicate normally with Quentin Reed, he inquired about the progress of the cell conversion agent research.

Glancing at the intravenous drip hanging above Alexander Smith's head, Quentin Reed sighed and shook his head. "No progress. If we could meet Dr. Moore, perhaps we'd find a breakthrough."

Alexander Smith had sent people to M Country to seek Dr. Moore's expertise. It wasn't just for Quentin Reed's project but also for his sister Natalie Smith's leg. Unfortunately, the emissaries didn't even meet Dr. Moore, let alone secure a chance for negotiation.

Observing Alexander Smith's silent response, Quentin Reed asked, "It's been five years; it's time to move on. Consider marrying someone."

Merely five years, indeed? Alexander Smith felt somewhat bewildered, as if he had traversed five entire centuries.

Each day without Jessica Turner seems interminable, akin to the passage of a century. He numbs himself with toil, immersing in ceaseless labor, denying himself even a solitary minute of respite. Despite such efforts, her visage persists in every document—her countenance aglow with laughter, her endearing charm, her playful reproaches, and her embraces around his neck expressing longing. Clinging to him, she playfully complains of weary feet while adorned in an apron, resembling a butterfly gracefully fluttering in the kitchen.

"Fetch me some sedatives," Alexander Smith diverts the conversation.