Chapter 80: Is He Protecting Me?

Isabella's POV

A sudden silence fell over the office, interrupting my light slumber. Through my foggy consciousness, I heard a cold voice: "Have him collect six months' salary from Finance. He doesn't need to come back tomorrow."

I jolted awake, my neck stiff and sore. Had I fallen asleep? At my desk? On my first day? I was done for!

I quickly straightened up, blinking away the sleepiness, and nervously glanced around. The design department was still bustling with activity, but something felt off. Everyone had their heads down, deliberately avoiding eye contact with me, as if I were some kind of plague. The tension in the office was suffocating.

My gaze swept across Tyler's workstation—empty. That jerk who had been ordering me to fetch coffee and make copies all morning was nowhere to be seen. His computer was off, and his chair showed no sign of recent occupation. Where had he gone?

Just then, something slipped from my shoulders. I instinctively caught it—a jacket? Not mine.

"This..." I turned to Amy at the next desk, my voice slightly trembling, "Amy, did I fall asleep?"

She looked up at me, her eyes darting away nervously. "It's fine. You can sleep whenever you want. Really."

"Whose jacket is this?" I asked quietly.

Amy leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper: "The CEO's."

My mind went blank with a buzzing sound, and my hand nearly dropped the jacket. Ethan had been here? I stared at the jacket in my hands, my thoughts a complete mess. Embarrassment, shock, and an inexplicable nervousness washed over me like a tidal wave. He'd seen me napping on the job, and instead of reprimanding me, he'd covered me with his jacket? I shook my head, certain I must be confused from sleep.

After that day, my status in the design department transformed overnight from rookie to "don't mess with her" territory. Someone had discovered my connection to Ethan—that we were "siblings" through my mother's remarriage—and suddenly everyone treated me with deference. Even Sawyer started asking for my opinion rather than just barking orders.

I ignored their reactions and threw myself into my work, moving between construction sites with my hard hat on. I had almost convinced myself that the jacket incident was just a strange coincidence until Sawyer appeared at my desk one day, his face pale.

"Isabella, we need to go to the 38th floor. Now."

"The executive level? Why are we meeting there today?" I looked up from my blueprints.

Sawyer was already striding toward the elevator. "There's been an accident at Phase Two. Four workers injured, one might need amputation."

I felt dizzy. I quickly grabbed my laptop and caught up with Sawyer, who was already waiting at the elevator.

The conference room on the 38th floor was even more impressive than I had imagined. I followed Sawyer and sat down, trying to make myself as small and inconspicuous as possible. My palms were sweating so much I had to discreetly wipe them on my pants.

The conference room door opened again, and Ethan walked in. The room instantly became so quiet it seemed no one was breathing. The only sounds were the soft scrape of a chair being pulled back and the slight thud of files being dropped on the table.

"What's the situation?" His voice was calm but severe.

I kept my head down, clutching my pen tightly, not daring to look at Ethan.

From what I understood, all Horizon employees feared him. He was efficient and ruthless, as cold as a machine, nicknamed the "killer CEO." No one dared to cross him.

Various people reported on the hospital situation, insurance compensation arrangements, and follow-up plans. I could feel someone looking at me, but I didn't dare raise my head, focusing instead on my fingers as I fidgeted with my pen cap.

"What exactly happened?" Ethan asked again, his tone marginally softer.

The construction engineer spoke up first: "Sir, the primary responsibility lies with the design department."

I jerked my head up, unable to believe my ears.

Sawyer immediately countered: "How is this our fault? Designers supervising on-site is standard procedure."

"If you hadn't demanded design changes, this wouldn't have happened," the engineer shot back.

"Isn't finding issues and modifying designs normal? How does an accident automatically become our designer's fault?"

So that's why I'd been called to the meeting—because my design modifications had led to workers getting injured.

The engineer pointed directly at me: "We had finished the balcony, and the scaffolding was already dismantled, but your designer insisted it didn't look right and demanded the workers rebuild the scaffolding to make changes. Now look what happened!"

Anger flared in my chest. Aesthetic problems? He was lying! They had cut corners and used substandard materials, and he dared to call me picky?

I took a deep breath, ready to counter, but Ethan spoke first, his voice calm with an undercurrent of mockery: "By your logic, Horizon should just stop building altogether. Then we'd have no accidents at all."

The conference room fell silent for a moment. I looked up at him, and the engineer, jaw clenched tight, began sweating profusely. "I'm sorry, Mr. Black, that's not what I meant. Our department bears some responsibility too."

"You mean full responsibility," Ethan calmly corrected.

"Yes, of course," the engineer stammered.

"Ensure the injured workers receive full compensation. Keep them and their families satisfied. No media involvement. And don't let this affect our construction schedule."

"Yes, sir." The engineer seemed unwilling to let it go and added, "This new designer frequently finds fault with our workers' efforts, making us redo work. It's slowing down the entire project."

I clenched my fists, determined to clear things up this time. But Ethan merely glanced at him, his fingers lightly tapping the table as he casually remarked, "Then change it until she's satisfied."

I looked up in shock, my gaze meeting Ethan's directly.

In that moment, my heart raced as if it might burst from my chest. Was he... protecting me? Even in front of all these executives, he chose to stand by me unconditionally?

After the meeting, we visited the injured workers at the hospital, then the group gathered at a restaurant for lunch.

I sat at the position furthest from Ethan, eating with my head down, listening to the executives compete to flatter him. All the talk of "brilliant decisions" and "visionary leadership" completely killed my appetite.

"Isabella," the PR director leaned in, speaking softly, "It's rare to have the opportunity to dine with the CEO. You should go toast him, thank the company for developing your career, and say something nice."

I put down my fork and methodically dabbed my napkin at my lips: "Director, I think he's met his flattery quota for today. I'll pass."

He froze, forcing out a dry laugh: "Girl, you really don't know how to play the game, do you?"

Just as I was thinking of an excuse to slip away, the light at my table dimmed. I looked up—Ethan had somehow appeared beside me, his hand already on the back of the chair as he pulled it out and sat down.

The entire restaurant froze. Everyone looked as if someone had hit pause: forks suspended in midair, wine glasses half-raised, sentences left hanging.

I stared at him, my heart skipping a beat, completely stunned—why was he sitting here?