Chapter 17
Fifteen minutes later, the police arrived.
With the recording and Isabella's statement laid out in front of them, Mason lost whatever confidence he had left to talk his way out of it.
Two officers took him by the arms and dragged him out of the private lounge.
As they passed Isabella, he shot her a look filled with something bitter and poisonous. His lips twitched like he wanted to say more.
But James was standing beside her. He gave Mason a single, cold glance.
Just that one glance made Mason stiffen, as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over him. He ducked his head and let himself be led down the hallway until he disappeared.
Silence finally settled over the room.
The air still smelled faintly of whiskey. A shattered glass lay on the carpet, tiny shards catching the overhead light like broken sparks.
Isabella stayed where she was, forcing her scattered emotions back into order piece by piece.
The alcohol was catching up to her now. A dull throb pulsed behind her temples, and her stomach twisted in protest.
She turned toward James. "Thank you."
"If you hadn't shown up when you did, things would've gotten a lot uglier. But it's handled now. I'll follow up with the police. The recording and evidence are all intact."
She dipped her head slightly—polite, distant. "It's late. I should go. Sorry for the trouble."
She grabbed her briefcase and started toward the door.
"Isabella," James said behind her.
Her steps faltered, though she didn't turn around.
"How much did you drink?"
She paused. "Not much."
"Four glasses of whiskey. On an empty stomach. You shouldn't be driving, and you shouldn't be going home alone like this."
Isabella held the doorframe, her fingers tightening around the handle of her briefcase.
She didn't argue. She really was dizzy.
She had forced those drinks down for a reason—to make Mason think she was willing to negotiate, to buy herself time to speak. She didn't regret it. But her body was paying for it now.
"Eat something first." James walked up beside her, his tone softening in a way she wasn't used to. "There's a restaurant downstairs. After you eat, I'll have the driver take you home."
Isabella turned her head just enough to look at him.
In the dim hallway lighting, the hard edges of his face seemed less severe. The anger he'd carried earlier had dissolved, replaced by something she couldn't quite name—something close to restrained concern.
She looked away. Words of refusal climbed up her throat, but before she could speak, a sharp cramp seized her stomach.
She pressed a hand against her abdomen, her brows knitting.
James didn't comment. He simply took her briefcase from her hand.
The movement was so smooth, so practiced, it felt like he'd done it a hundred times before.
Isabella opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Downstairs, the restaurant was nearly empty. The lighting was soft, the space quiet in a way that made the night feel heavier.
James ordered a bowl of hot soup and a few light dishes. No drinks.
Isabella sat across from him and lifted the bowl, sipping the warm broth slowly.
The heat eased the churn in her stomach, and for the first time since the confrontation, her body began to relax.
They didn't speak.
The only sounds were the faint clink of dishes and the distant hum of traffic outside the windows.
The quiet pressed on her, strangely uncomfortable.
It had been a long time since they sat across a table like this.
To be precise, even during the six years they were married, they rarely shared a meal in peace.
Back at Sinclair Villa, she used to prepare dinner every night, hoping for a moment like this. But James was always working late or retreating to his study with a plate, unwilling to sit at the same table with her for even ten minutes.
And now here they were, in a place that didn't belong to either of them, sitting across from each other with a divorce agreement still unsigned, with six years of silent wounds between them.
This wasn't a comfortable silence. It wasn't tender or warm.
It was the kind of silence you had when there was nothing left to say.
Isabella set down her bowl and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. She was about to tell him she was done.
"Jasper misses you," James said suddenly.
His gaze remained on the table. His fingers traced the rim of his water glass, his voice lower than usual. "He keeps asking when you're coming home. He's called you a bunch of times, but you didn't answer."
Isabella stilled.
Of course, she knew.
She had seen every missed call.
It wasn't that she didn't want to answer. She didn't dare.
She was terrified that hearing Jasper's little voice would undo every inch of resolve she'd fought so hard to build.
She was terrified she'd cave.
And if she caved, she'd never get out again.
"He drew a picture," James went on, a faint catch in his voice. "Four stick figures in front of a house. He said it's Daddy, Mommy, himself, and a little dog. He wants a dog. He wants you to help him take care of it."
Her fingers tightened around the napkin.
She lowered her head and pretended to straighten the papers in her briefcase, hiding the wave of emotion rising in her chest. "You can handle his stuff."
James lifted his head. He watched her quietly for several seconds, then seemed to make up his mind about something.
"Jasper's parent-teacher conference is at the end of next month."
"It's the annual fall meeting. One-on-one. The teacher talks about how the kids are doing in class."
He paused. His throat worked. "His teacher called last week. She said Jasper hasn't been himself. He zones out. He's withdrawn. She suggested that both parents should come."
He paused again, softer this time. "Isabella, can you come home for it?"
The restaurant fell silent.
Isabella leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
Jasper wasn't doing well.
Zoning out. Not talking.
Those words clawed at her heart until it ached.
Her son. The child she carried for nine months. The baby she once held in her arms all night long to lull to sleep.
How could she not want to go to him?
But she also knew the truth: if she gave in now—if she returned because of one conference—she would be pulled back piece by piece into the life she had barely escaped from.
Back into the Sinclair Villa version of herself, the one treated like she was invisible, a woman whose presence was worth less than the household staff.
Because James wasn't just asking her to show up for a meeting.
He was asking her to come home.
To walk back into the cage she had crawled out of with the last of her courage.
Isabella opened her eyes and looked straight at him. "James, I have a question."
He held her gaze.
"If I agree to go to the conference, then what?" Her voice was calm, flat as still water. "Are you going to ask me to stay the night? Will you let me have breakfast with Jasper? Will you let me take him to school?"
A faint, bitter smile pulled at her lips. "And Charlotte will stand there smiling, telling me not to exhaust myself, that she'll handle things. And Jasper will listen to her, little by little, until he drifts away from me again. Then you'll tell me I'm overreacting and being unreasonable. And everything will go right back to how it was."
Her eyes didn't waver. "Tell me, James. Am I wrong?"