Chapter 18
James's expression darkened bit by bit, as if someone were slowly dimming a light behind his eyes.
He wanted to argue.
He opened his mouth, only to realize he couldn't find a single point to refute. Every word she'd said was something that had actually happened over the past six years.
Exactly as she'd said it.
"I'm not going to the parents' meeting." Isabella rose from her seat, picked up her briefcase, and slid the chair back under the table with a quiet, controlled motion.
There was no tremor in her voice, no crack in her posture. Anyone watching would have thought she was perfectly calm.
Only she knew her nails were digging hard into her palm, sharp enough to sting.
"If you really believe Jasper needs his mother," she said, her voice steady, "then sign the divorce papers."
She looked straight at him, each word deliberate.
"Once the law says we're no longer married, I'll visit him as his mother. I'll keep in touch with him. I'll celebrate his birthdays with him. I'll go to every parents' meeting he wants me at."
"But that only happens when I'm no longer your wife."
Her gaze was clear and unwavering, a quiet finality settling there. "Because that's the only way I can stand in front of Jasper without feeling like I'm begging for permission."
She turned toward the restaurant's exit.
This time, James didn't call after her.
He stayed where he was, watching her push open the glass door. A draft of night air swept inside, stirring the napkins on the table.
She walked out.
Her half-finished soup sat across from him, still faintly steaming. The dishes between them were barely touched.
James stared at the warm bowl, and a memory rose, uninvited.
Years ago, he'd come home from the office close to one in the morning. The house had been dark except for a sliver of light coming from the kitchen.
He'd found Isabella asleep at the dining table, her head resting on her folded arms. In front of her sat a bowl of soup gone cold and a handwritten note in her round, neat handwriting: [Your stomach's sensitive. Even if it's late, drink something warm. I'll keep this hot. Remember to have some when you get in.]
He'd glanced at it, said nothing, crumpled the note, tossed it in the trash, and headed upstairs.
He hadn't touched the soup.
Now she had drunk half a bowl of soup in front of him and walked away.
And he didn't even have the right to ask her to sit back down and finish it.
James shut his eyes and pressed a hand over his face. Through his fingers, the restaurant lights looked too bright. Or maybe it wasn't the lights at all. His eyes burned.
Outside the private club, a black SUV waited at the curb.
Isabella climbed in and gave the driver the address of her office. As the car pulled into the night traffic of Tech Harbor, she leaned back, her fingers tightening around the handle of her briefcase until the knuckles went pale.
Her voice in the restaurant had sounded almost foreign to her—steady, composed, measured.
But every line she spoke had cut through her chest like someone sliding a blade between her ribs.
Jasper missed her.
He had started drawing her again.
He wanted a puppy—wanted her to raise it with him.
She closed her eyes. A single tear slipped out, tracing a warm path down her cheek before disappearing into her collar.
Just one.
She wiped it away and opened her eyes again. They were clear. Resolute.
She hadn't done anything wrong.
Leaving was the only way to return properly.
And when she returned, it would be on her own terms. Not because someone allowed it.
The next morning, at Northstar Architecture, Isabella arrived at eight sharp. Her makeup was flawless, her expression composed. Nothing about her reflected the night before.
At nine, her office phone rang.
"Ms. Tudor, good morning. This is George King, Vice President at West Coast Tourism & Culture Group."
His voice was calm and professional, carrying a straightforwardness that contrasted sharply with Mason's polished charm.
"I've been informed about what happened. First, let me offer our sincere apologies. Mason's actions violated our company's professional ethics policy, and the board held an emergency meeting this morning."
Isabella leaned back slightly, listening without interrupting.
"Effective immediately, Mason has been removed from all responsibilities related to the Amber District project. We'll also be cooperating fully with law enforcement regarding the investigation."
George paused, sincerity threading into his tone.
"In addition, Ms. Tudor, I want to clarify something personally. Our group never intended to withdraw from the Harbor Cultural Resort Project. The so-called suspension email Mason sent was unauthorized and does not reflect the board's stance."
"Northstar Architecture's proposal is unanimously considered the strongest among all bidders. We value this partnership a great deal."
"So, if you're willing, I'd like to schedule a meeting to go over the project details again. This time, I'll take over as your direct point of contact."
Isabella looked out at the skyline beyond her window and allowed herself a small, composed smile.
"Of course," she said. "Mr. King, tomorrow at two, in Northstar Architecture's conference room. Does that work?"
"Perfect. See you then."
When she hung up, Isabella let out a long, controlled breath.
Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, washing over her desk, catching the edges of her drafts and sketches in a warm, golden glow.
The next afternoon, at exactly two, George arrived with two corporate attorneys and a project manager. The negotiations for the Harbor Cultural Resort Project lasted three hours.
Isabella steered the discussion from start to finish. She held firm on design authority, phased deliverable standards, and intellectual property rights. Every time George tried to secure more flexibility for his side, she met him with data, precedent, and a calm certainty that left him no easy openings.
By the end, the veteran executive—who had spent more than two decades navigating boardrooms—looked at the young woman across from him, dressed in a sleek black suit, poised and unshakable. He let out a soft, incredulous laugh.
"Ms. Tudor, I see now why Mason crashed and burned," he said lightly. "He's probably gone his whole life without meeting someone who can outplay him this thoroughly."
Isabella smiled, quiet and distant. She didn't respond, simply slid the contract toward him, and placed a pen beside the signature line.
George signed. Decisively.
Two copies—one for Northstar Architecture, one for West Coast Tourism & Culture Group.
A restrained but genuine round of applause filled the room.
At the far end of the table, Joseph watched the woman at the head seat incline her head slightly after signing. His mouth curved.
The project team's lead leaned toward him and whispered, "Mr. Miller, Ms. Tudor is something else. After almost getting caught in a mess last night, she walked in this morning and closed the deal like nothing had happened."