Chapter 13
Jasper curled up on the couch with a throw pillow clutched to his chest, his head bowed as he mumbled into the fabric. "If Mom has a new uncle… does that mean she doesn't want me anymore?"
His voice grew smaller, until it disappeared into the pillow. His shoulders shook with quiet, uneven tremors.
The living room went painfully still.
James set down his tablet, rose to his feet, and crossed the room. Without a word, he bent down and lifted Jasper into his arms.
Jasper buried his face in the crook of James's shoulder, his muffled sobs warm against James's shirt.
James tapped Jasper's back in a slow, steady rhythm, then raised his head. His gaze landed on Charlotte—cold, flat, stripped of the easy patience he usually offered her.
For the first time, there was nothing soft in his eyes. Only scrutiny.
"Charlotte Johnson." He said her full name, not the familiar Charlotte.
Something in Charlotte's chest dropped.
"Don't bring that kind of garbage up in front of Jasper again." James's voice was even, but the edge was unmistakable. "He's six."
Charlotte blinked, stunned for a beat before her eyes reddened, her voice trembling as she tried to swallow her embarrassment. "James, I didn't mean anything by it. I just saw the news and said it without thinking. Do you really have to talk to me like this?"
James didn't answer.
He simply turned, Jasper in his arms, and walked upstairs.
Charlotte stood frozen in the center of the room, staring at the retreating figure. Her fingernails slowly pressed into her palm, sharp enough to sting.
In all the years she'd known James, he had never spoken to her like that.
Never.
Even when she made mistakes, he would smooth things over, quietly, without calling her out. He never left her standing exposed.
But today, he'd rebuked her directly. In front of Jasper.
And all of it—every humiliating second—was because of Isabella.
Charlotte slowly lowered her gaze, grabbed her purse from the sofa, and left Sinclair Villa without another look.
Outside, the late-autumn wind off the Novaria coast cut through her thin coat. She stood under the porch for a long moment before pulling out her phone and scrolling to a number with no name attached.
She dialed.
The call was picked up after two rings.
"Ms. Johnson." The man's voice was low, slick with the practiced ease of someone who dealt in information for a living.
Leaning against her car, Charlotte's tone softened back into its usual poised warmth, though the glint in her eyes could have frozen asphalt. "Is everything ready?"
"All set. Photos, screenshots, and that old anonymous complaint accusing her of academic misconduct—got them all. Sure, the school cleared her completely back then. But as long as we only release the complaint and not the investigation results, the public won't care."
A small smile tugged at Charlotte's lips.
"And?"
"And we've also got the material from when she and Joseph shared that studio space years ago. We added a little color, paired it with a few surveillance stills of them entering the same building. The copy will push it in a suggestive direction. Trust me, the internet will fill in the rest."
Charlotte closed her eyes for a slow inhale.
"Send it out. Buy whatever traffic you need. I want everyone to see it."
"Understood, Ms. Johnson."
When the call ended, Charlotte lowered the phone and let the wind rake through her hair. The smile lingering at her mouth sharpened.
Isabella, you think standing onstage with the world cheering means you've finally made it?
'So what if you're talented? So what if you're coming back?'
'If I want to drag you down, it only takes a snap of my fingers.'
Across the city, at Tech Harbor's Northstar Architecture Headquarters, the building was mostly dark except for the warm glow spilling from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the design director's office.
It was nearly eleven.
Isabella sat at her drafting table, left hand steadying a ruler, right hand guiding a fine-line pen across a fresh sheet of vellum. New façade sketches spread out beneath her fingertips.
Her workspace was a storm of blueprints, notes, and calculation sheets. A coffee cup sat abandoned nearby, with dried streaks marking where the last drops had clung to the sides.
Since the press conference, Northstar Architecture's profile—and workload—had surged.
Several major contracts were moving at once. As Chief Design Director, Isabella now worked late almost every night.
And she didn't mind.
Every line she drew came with a quiet, bone-deep satisfaction she hadn't felt once in all six years inside the Sinclair family's estate.
A soft knock broke the silence.
"Come in," she said without looking up.
The door opened, and Joseph stepped in carrying two steaming drinks. He set one beside her hand.
"Warm milk. Not coffee." His glance slid to her empty cup, his brow tightening. "You've already had four today. One more and your stomach's going to give up."
Isabella took the milk and sipped. Heat spread through her chest, comforting and gentle. "Thanks."
"How's the new design coming?" Joseph took the seat across from her, his eyes drifting over the sketch.
"The framework's done. I'm still working out a few details." She pointed with the tip of her pen. "These structural nodes aren't distributing weight the way I want. I'll meet with the structural team again tomorrow."
Joseph nodded, but his attention shifted from the drawings to her face.
Under the late-night light, her profile looked calm and focused. A few loose strands had slipped behind her ear and brushed her neck, soft against skin that caught the glow.
She didn't notice his gaze at all.
He watched her for another moment before speaking quietly, "Isabella."
"Mm?" She didn't look up, still writing in the margins.
"Have you thought about… how you want your life to look from now on?"
Her pen paused.
She lifted her head and met his eyes.
His expression held worry, tenderness, and something he usually hid—something that slipped free only in moments like this.
"I mean," he added, voice barely above a murmur, "now that you're divorced. You're alone here in Tech Harbor. Work is crazy. And you don't have family close by. I worry about you sometimes."
He let out a breath and gave a faint, self-mocking smile.
"I know this isn't the right moment. You're fresh out of a bad marriage. The last thing you need is another guy complicating things. But Isabella… I've held these words in for so long."
He swallowed.
"I've always been here. And I will be. Whether you want me or not."
The office fell quiet.
Isabella set her pen down and simply looked at him.
Joseph had always been like this—quietly steady, endlessly patient, never pushing. He folded his feelings into small things: a perfectly timed cup of warm milk, a late-night shift he stayed for without mentioning, a presence that never demanded but never disappeared.
If she had never met James—if her heart hadn't been shattered, stitched back together, then torn apart again over six long years—maybe she would have leaned into the warmth Joseph offered.
But she knew exactly where she stood now.