Chapter 9

James's brow tightened, just barely.

He thought of Isabella's voice on the phone the night before—calm, distant, stripped of warmth. It shouldn't have surprised him, yet hearing Charlotte talk about her that way sent a sharp, unexplainable irritation through his chest.

"Enough." He stood, his voice carrying a sudden chill. "You should go. The nurses can handle things here."

Charlotte froze, her smile stiffening like wet paint turning brittle.

James had already turned away from her, his gaze drifting toward the window, lost in thoughts she couldn't reach. She swallowed whatever she had hoped to say, murmured for him to rest well, and quietly let herself out.

The door clicked shut behind her.

James stayed at the window, staring down at the endless river of cars on the street below, while Isabella's words replayed in his mind.

"Maybe it's good for you to experience what taking care of a kid is really like."

"You seemed to manage just fine without me, didn't you?"

He suddenly remembered how Jasper used to get sick—how Isabella stayed up entire nights, taking temperatures, wiping sweat, coaxing him to drink water. Her eyes would go bloodshot, but she never lay down.

And him?

He didn't even know where she kept the fever meds.

Jasper ended up staying in the hospital for two nights before the fever finally broke. 

James barely left the bedside, watching Jasper drift from exhaustion into recovery. When they were discharged, Jasper held his hand and whispered, "Daddy, when's Mommy coming back?"

James had no answer.

He took Jasper home, left him with the nanny, and instead of heading to his study, he went upstairs and pushed open the master bedroom door.

He hadn't slept in this room for five years.

After their first year of marriage, he'd moved into the guest room across the hall, leaving the master bedroom to Isabella. 

It still looked like she had just stepped out for the afternoon—neat bed, pale gray curtains she loved, a minimalist lamp on the nightstand.

James walked to the closet, opened the door, and paused.

Empty.

She had taken everything when she left.

Only a few bare hangers remained, and a single forgotten shoebox in the corner. He bent down and picked it up. Inside lay an old pair of white canvas sneakers, washed so many times that the fabric had softened and lost its color.

He remembered.

She'd worn them when she first moved in. Said she'd bought them in college and couldn't bear to throw them out. 

He had teased her for being cheap, told her the Sinclair Family could buy any shoes she wanted, so why cling to something that looked like it came off a roadside rack?

Isabella hadn't argued. She'd just smiled and tucked them away in the back of the closet.

James stood there a long time, the shoes resting motionless in his hands.

The next day, he returned to the office.

"Mr. Sinclair, HR's Ms. Lewis is here with the documents. She's also got an update on personnel shifts at our competitors."

"Send her in."

Scarlett Lewis, head of HR, was a sharp, well-connected woman in her forties, the kind who always knew something before everyone else. She laid the documents on the desk and opened one page.

"Mr. Sinclair, I've heard Northstar Architecture just brought in a new chief design director. Name's Isabella. This woman is a nuclear-level secret weapon."

James's pen stopped mid-signature. He looked at her, gaze dark, but said nothing.

Scarlett kept going, oblivious to the tension tightening the air around him.

"You're not in the design world, so you might not know—this Ms. Tudor used to be considered a once-in-a-century genius. She won an international gold medal with a sophomore-year project. Her thesis work was collected by a national museum. Industry giants practically lined up to sign her."

James's fingers slowly curled.

Genius designer. International gold medal. National Museum.

Those bright, blazing words belonged to the woman he had once dismissed as dull?

"Such a waste, though. Even geniuses can be idiots in love." Scarlett sighed, then her tone shifted into open scorn. "She apparently married right after graduating, vanished from the industry, and turned herself into a housewife for six years. Luckily, she finally woke up, dumped that deadbeat husband, and made a comeback."

A vein throbbed violently at James's temple.

"Deadbeat?" He asked.

"That's what everyone says. The design forums are having a field day."

Scarlett laughed, warming up to the drama. "People are betting her ex-husband must be some world-class moron. Who else would treat a priceless gem like a pebble? And use the top talent in the industry as a free nanny? It's the definition of stupid."

James's face went colorless with rage. His throat worked around words he couldn't say, "Is that so?"

"Oh, that's nothing." Scarlett clicked her tongue. "I heard the guy even cheated on her. No wonder she left him. Some senior designers were furious when they found out—said the man must've been born blind. Called him a first-rate jackass."

A soft snap broke the air.

James had crushed his custom fountain pen, the metal tip bending under the pressure. A sharp edge dug into his skin, drawing a thin line of blood.

Scarlett startled. "Mr. Sinclair, are you alright?"

"I'm fine." He gritted the words out, tasting blood where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek.

What could he say?

That the brainless jackass the entire industry was mocking was sitting right in front of her?

"Mr. Sinclair," Scarlett added quickly when she saw how dark his expression had turned, assuming he was worried about the competition, "don't worry. Even if Northstar has Isabella, the Sinclair Group is still strong. But honestly, as a man, don't you think her ex-husband must be out of his damn mind?"

James snatched the documents from his desk and hurled them aside. He pointed at the door, eyes bloodshot.

"Get out."

Three days later.

James flew to Tech Harbor under the pretext of inspecting the Amber District branch.

After landing, he sat in the back seat of the company car and, without knowing why, pulled out his phone and typed Isabella's name into the search bar.

The top result was a headline: #Northstar Architecture to Host New Product Launch Today; Chief Design Director Isabella to Present New Concepts#

His eyes lingered on her name.

"Take me to this address," he told the driver, handing over the phone.

"Yes, Mr. Sinclair."

In downtown Tech Harbor, the Northstar Architecture event hall was packed, every seat filled with industry professionals and reporters. Cameras flashed like strobe lights.

Isabella stood center stage in a tailored black suit dress, her hair pulled into a low ponytail, her makeup sharp and professional. Behind her, a massive screen displayed renderings of her newest commercial complex—smooth lines, layered lighting, a blend of art and futurism.

"This project breaks the traditional closed structure of commercial spaces," she said, her voice steady and clear. "We integrated the concept of a breathing building."

She pointed toward the schematic. "Through vertical greenery and natural ventilation systems, the structure interacts with the environment. It lowers energy consumption while creating a more comfortable space for users."

Applause spread across the room.

Joseph, seated in the front row, turned slightly to watch her—admiration unhidden.

This was the Isabella he knew.

The brilliant designer. The woman who was never meant to be locked in a kitchen, wiping counters and boiling soup.

On stage, Isabella sensed his gaze, nodded, and gave him a small, composed smile.

Everything was moving forward.

She had finally reclaimed herself.

"Next, please look at the screen—this is the core highlight of our design—"

She was about to switch the slide when the back doors slammed open with a violent bang.

A woman in a red dress stormed in on high heels, fury radiating off her, several cameramen rushing behind her.

"Isabella! Have you no shame?!"

She jabbed a finger toward the stage.

"Taking our company's rejected draft from two years ago, making some superficial changes, and slapping your name on it for a product launch! What kind of genius designer are you? A plagiarist who slept her way to the top by seducing her boss—how dare you stand here spouting nonsense?!"