Ballerina’s Confession：Seduced by My Twin Coaches - Chapter 11: Chapter 11
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Turns out, they'd mistaken me for my best friend—same name, same taste for knockoff designer bags.
"I've liked you for a long time," Michael confessed, eyes glistening as he showed me the raw marks on his wrists. "That's why I kept telling Warren to back off. I never wanted you hurt."
"But that bastard locked me up. I barely got out today!"
"Isabella, I swear, I'm in love with you. Here—look at my messages with Warren!"
He scrolled through a storm of angry texts. Sure enough, he'd fought for me at every turn.
Something warm flickered in my chest.
"I screwed up," he murmured. "But please… give me another chance."
"All I want is to protect you… to be with you…"
Tears pricked my eyes as I nodded.
"Okay, Professor. I forgive you. But these last few days… I need to breathe."
"Let's take a cruise tomorrow. I've got some savings."
Michael agreed instantly—too eager to notice the smirk ghosting my lips.
The next morning, he practically floated me onto that luxury liner.
Once we hit international waters, I handed him a glass of orange juice. Three sips in, he was out cold.
Half an hour later, as the ship cut through open ocean, Michael stirred—only to find his body numb, useless.
Panic clawed into his voice as he begged for a doctor.
For his safety, I refused the ship's hack and called in the International Maritime Medical Team instead.
Soon, they wheeled him onto their surgical vessel.
"Another one, Isabella? And another premium catch." The doctor trailed a scalpel down Michael's torso, impressed. "These organs hit the market, your offshore account's gonna sing."
"Just doing my job," I said lightly.
Michael's eyes bulged.
"W-what are you doing to me?!"
I leaned in, smiling.
"Darling Warren… really? You thought I wouldn't recognize you playing dress-up as Michael?"
"The real Michael's still playing king in the Special Economic Zone, isn't he?"
Warren—because that's who he was—jerked like I'd electrocuted him.
"You—you're psychotic! Isabella, I am Michael! Your professor! This is a mistake!"
I whispered in his ear:
"Give it up. Did you really think I wouldn't spot such a sloppy con?"
"How many people have you dragged into that hellhole with this act? Classic bait-and-switch, right?"
"Am I close?"
The second he realized the game was over, Warren snarled, "Who the hell are you?!"
"Sea Minotaur," I purred.
As the words left my mouth, the doctor wheeled him into the OR. His screams cut off with the hiss of sealing doors.
I lit a cigarette, took a slow drag.
That's right.
I'm Sea Minotaur.
While Thailand and Myanmar stick to land-based scams, I work the high seas.
This medical team? Partners in crime. I bring the donors, they handle the extractions.
Organs are big business—governments, politicians, elites all hungry for fresh supply.
Let's be real: this is just another Tuesday for the global elite. Organs, blood, even DNA—nothing's off the table when profit's involved.
Our supply chain? Sleeker than any Special Economic Zone.
And since we operate in international waters? Untouchable.
I get a cut per donor. My offshore accounts? Flourishing.
Over the years, I've delivered plenty.
Corrupt officials. Rapists. Child predators.
Not one's slipped through my fingers.
If the world keeps breeding monsters, who am I to turn down the paycheck?
Two birds, one stone.
Once we cleared open waters, I boarded a smaller yacht back to shore.
"I've liked you for a long time," Michael confessed, eyes glistening as he showed me the raw marks on his wrists. "That's why I kept telling Warren to back off. I never wanted you hurt."
"But that bastard locked me up. I barely got out today!"
"Isabella, I swear, I'm in love with you. Here—look at my messages with Warren!"
He scrolled through a storm of angry texts. Sure enough, he'd fought for me at every turn.
Something warm flickered in my chest.
"I screwed up," he murmured. "But please… give me another chance."
"All I want is to protect you… to be with you…"
Tears pricked my eyes as I nodded.
"Okay, Professor. I forgive you. But these last few days… I need to breathe."
"Let's take a cruise tomorrow. I've got some savings."
Michael agreed instantly—too eager to notice the smirk ghosting my lips.
The next morning, he practically floated me onto that luxury liner.
Once we hit international waters, I handed him a glass of orange juice. Three sips in, he was out cold.
Half an hour later, as the ship cut through open ocean, Michael stirred—only to find his body numb, useless.
Panic clawed into his voice as he begged for a doctor.
For his safety, I refused the ship's hack and called in the International Maritime Medical Team instead.
Soon, they wheeled him onto their surgical vessel.
"Another one, Isabella? And another premium catch." The doctor trailed a scalpel down Michael's torso, impressed. "These organs hit the market, your offshore account's gonna sing."
"Just doing my job," I said lightly.
Michael's eyes bulged.
"W-what are you doing to me?!"
I leaned in, smiling.
"Darling Warren… really? You thought I wouldn't recognize you playing dress-up as Michael?"
"The real Michael's still playing king in the Special Economic Zone, isn't he?"
Warren—because that's who he was—jerked like I'd electrocuted him.
"You—you're psychotic! Isabella, I am Michael! Your professor! This is a mistake!"
I whispered in his ear:
"Give it up. Did you really think I wouldn't spot such a sloppy con?"
"How many people have you dragged into that hellhole with this act? Classic bait-and-switch, right?"
"Am I close?"
The second he realized the game was over, Warren snarled, "Who the hell are you?!"
"Sea Minotaur," I purred.
As the words left my mouth, the doctor wheeled him into the OR. His screams cut off with the hiss of sealing doors.
I lit a cigarette, took a slow drag.
That's right.
I'm Sea Minotaur.
While Thailand and Myanmar stick to land-based scams, I work the high seas.
This medical team? Partners in crime. I bring the donors, they handle the extractions.
Organs are big business—governments, politicians, elites all hungry for fresh supply.
Let's be real: this is just another Tuesday for the global elite. Organs, blood, even DNA—nothing's off the table when profit's involved.
Our supply chain? Sleeker than any Special Economic Zone.
And since we operate in international waters? Untouchable.
I get a cut per donor. My offshore accounts? Flourishing.
Over the years, I've delivered plenty.
Corrupt officials. Rapists. Child predators.
Not one's slipped through my fingers.
If the world keeps breeding monsters, who am I to turn down the paycheck?
Two birds, one stone.
Once we cleared open waters, I boarded a smaller yacht back to shore.
End of Ballerina’s Confession：Seduced by My Twin Coaches Chapter 11. View all chapters or return to Ballerina’s Confession：Seduced by My Twin Coaches book page.