Chapter 11
She pressed the remote.
An old photograph appeared on the screen.
In the picture, a pony‑tailed teenage girl stood on a winner's podium, holding a silver trophy. Flashlights caught her eyes half‑closed, and her smile was bright and shy.
A caption slowly appeared beneath it: [Winner of the 27th International Youth Architectural Design Gold Award: Isabella Tudor.]
Next came a second photo.
Inside the National Museum of Architecture, a series of intricate architectural models was displayed behind glass. A plaque beside them carried her name.
The third photo.
Covers of top design magazines, interviews from industry‑leading outlets, guest lists from international architecture forums…
Every single one carried the same name: Isabella Tudor.
The entire room went silent.
"My God… she's that Isabella? The prodigy who vanished after winning the Gold Award?"
"She actually came back?!"
The applause that erupted was louder than before.
In the shadowed wing at the side of the stage, James stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the woman under the spotlight.
She stood there, radiant and impossible to look away from.
Scarlett's words resurfaced in his mind. "That man treated a world‑class jewel like a cheap imitation, let a top‑tier golden goose stay home as an unpaid nanny."
James swallowed hard.
That man was him.
The press conference ended with a wave of unending applause.
As Isabella stepped off the stage, industry representatives waiting near the wing instantly crowded around her.
"Ms. Tudor! I'm the editor‑in‑chief of Novaria Times Architecture. Could we do an exclusive feature?"
"Ms. Tudor, our group has a cultural tourism complex project on the West Coast. We're selecting a design team—would Northstar Architecture be interested?"
"Ms. Tudor, I'm a visiting professor from Silver Pine University's architecture department. We've been looking for a mentor in the industry. Would you consider—"
Business cards flew toward her like snowflakes.
Isabella accepted them one by one, responding to each person with poised, composed courtesy.
She wore a faint smile—not distant, not overly warm, the perfect balance.
A few industry giants even extended collaboration offers on the spot, their sincerity bordering on eagerness.
Only when the last visitor had left did Joseph walk up with a cup of warm latte, which he offered to her.
"You did great, Ms. Tudor." He gave a slight bow, his tone tinged with humor. "The highlight reel from today's press conference will probably end up in Northstar Architecture's hall of fame."
Isabella took the coffee, sipping it before letting out a soft laugh.
"I didn't have much of a choice."
"You still need the skill to pull off something like this." Joseph's gaze on her was gentle and earnest. "Come on. The car's in the underground garage. Let me take you home. You've had a long day. Get some rest tonight."
Isabella nodded and followed him toward the side exit.
But the moment they reached the hallway, a tall figure blocked the doorway.
James had no telling how long he'd been waiting there. One button of his suit jacket was undone, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other hung by his side, his long fingers curled tight.
Joseph paused, stepping half a pace forward, subtly shielding Isabella, his expression calm but his eyes alert.
"Mr. Sinclair." Joseph spoke first, polite but distant. "The press conference is over. Can we help you with anything?"
James didn't even glance at him. His stare was fixed entirely on Isabella. "Isabella, we need to talk."
Cradling her coffee cup, Isabella lifted her eyes to meet his.
Those almond eyes, once so quick to dart away from him, were now clear and steady, as deep and still as untouched lakewater. "What is it, Mr. Sinclair?"
A twitch pulled sharply at James's brow.
Mr. Sinclair. She called him Mr. Sinclair.
She had always called him James—again and again, even when he didn't respond—as if clinging to that name alone meant they still had some connection left.
"Come here." His voice was low, strained. He turned and walked toward the far end of the hallway, obviously unwilling to speak in front of Joseph.
Isabella glanced toward Joseph.
He gave a small nod. "I'll wait in the car. Call me if you need anything."
Isabella handed him the coffee cup, then followed James.
The hallway ended at a fire escape door. James pushed it open and stepped inside; Isabella followed.
The narrow stairwell was lit only by a harsh emergency light overhead, stretching their shadows long and heavy against the concrete.
James turned, looking down at her from a step above.
He stayed silent for a few seconds before speaking. His voice was rough, as if forced from his chest. "Isabella, are you really never coming back?"
Isabella leaned against the cold concrete wall, arms crossed, her posture detached. "Mr. Sinclair, I thought the divorce agreement stated everything clearly."
"You—" James's brows drew together sharply. He took a step forward, dropping his voice with barely contained anger.
"And Jasper? Are you abandoning your own son? You're really this cold?"
Isabella's lashes trembled. "Mr. Sinclair… who said I wasn't fit to be Jasper's mother? Who said Charlotte was better for him? Who made it so I wasn't even allowed to see him at school?"
She lifted her gaze, locking onto his eyes. "You said those things, James."
She didn't give him time to speak.
Straightening, she addressed him as if discussing a routine business matter. "The divorce agreement is signed. It's already been sent to you. You've seen the terms. I'm not asking for anything—no assets, no custody. Clean and simple."
There was no resentment in her gaze, no lingering attachment, no plea for him to stop her.
"James, let's just end this on decent terms."
Something in his chest felt like it was splintering, piece by piece.
He opened his mouth, Adam's apple bobbing twice, about to say something when his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He ignored it.
Three seconds later, it vibrated again—insistent this time.
Isabella glanced at the light flashing from his pocket and arched a brow slightly. Her lips curved faintly, a quiet, unreadable smile. "Mr. Sinclair, your phone has rung three times."
She tilted her head, her gaze cool and pointed. "You're not picking up?"