The late morning sun filtered weakly through the penthouse curtains, washing the library in muted light. Numbers sprawled across the table, neat columns of figures, contracts, and charts. Ethan sat with his chin propped in one hand, twirling a pen in the other. His eyes glazed over somewhere between "projected earnings" and "Kameda Holdings expansion."
Walter stood nearby, pointer in hand, tapping it against a sheet that displayed a bar graph. "Japanese investors will not be forgiving if you mishandle even a single phrase," he lectured. "Respect is built in the smallest details. The bow, the pause, the honorifics. Adrian mastered them without hesitation. You—" he shot Ethan a look—"must at least appear to try."
Ethan blew out a breath. "Right. Real estate, energy, influence. Bow at forty-five degrees, not ninety. No jokes about Godzilla. Got it."
Before Walter could retort, a buzz cut through the air. Adrian's phone—now Ethan's—vibrated against the polished oak, its screen lighting up. He reached for it absentmindedly—then froze. The name made his stomach lurch.
Isabella Whitmore.
He blinked, staring at the glowing screen as though it might vanish. Slowly, he unlocked the phone.
Lunch. Tomorrow. No excuses.
That was all. No pleasantries, no hesitation. A command wrapped in elegance.
Walter noticed immediately. "Who is it?"
Ethan pressed the phone face-down on the table, masking his unease with a crooked grin. "Just… business."
Walter extended his hand. "Show me."
Reluctantly, Ethan slid the phone across. Walter read the message, his expression impassive. When he set it down again, his voice was clipped. "Isabella Whitmore. Of course. Her parents have been pressing her to spend more time with Adrian."
Ethan raised his brows. "You mean—fiancée Isabella?"
Walter gave a short nod. "The engagement exists in name only. It was an arrangement. Names, families, influence. Duty, nothing more. But appearances must be maintained."
Ethan leaned back, muttering, "Wow. An engagement without romance. Sounds like a real fairytale."
Walter ignored the comment. "When you meet her, you will not be Ethan Miller of Queens. You will be Adrian Arden—measured, poised, and impenetrable. Do you understand?"
Ethan smirked, though his hand tightened on the phone. "Sure. Stone face, clipped words, no smiling. Got it."
But his bravado slipped when he remembered the photo Walter had shown him days earlier: Isabella in a black gown, her posture perfect, her gaze cold and unreadable. He'd brushed it off at the time, cracking a joke about her looking like she was auditioning for a perfume ad. Now, the reality of meeting her sent a current racing through him. His chest tightened in a way he hadn't expected.
Walter studied him closely. "She will notice. Isabella was raised to see weakness as liability. If you falter—"
"I'll blame the accident," Ethan interrupted, a little too quickly. "Trauma, memory gaps, lingering headaches. People don't question a man who nearly died. It's perfect."
Walter's jaw tightened. After a moment, he gave a slow nod. "Perhaps. But do not overuse it. Sympathy has limits."
The grandfather clock ticked on, filling the silence. Ethan tapped the phone against his palm, staring at Isabella's name on the screen again. He'd never even met her, yet already he felt off-balance, like he was walking onto a stage without a script.
"Walter," he asked suddenly, quieter than before. "What was she like with Adrian?"
The older man hesitated. His reply came crisp but tinged with something almost weary. "Distant. Cold. Like two actors reading lines in a play neither wished to perform."
Ethan swallowed. He should have felt relieved. Instead, his pulse quickened. Then maybe… just maybe… she'll see me differently.
Walter's gaze flicked to him sharply, as if reading his thought. "Do not mistake curiosity for affection. And do not—" he jabbed the pointer toward him—"let your heart interfere. This is survival, Mr. Miller. Nothing more."
Ethan leaned back with a grin that didn't hide his nerves. "Relax, Walter. I'm not planning on falling for anyone."
But when he finally typed his reply—Yes. Lunch works.—his pulse betrayed him, racing as though he were about to step onto the biggest stage of his life.
And for the first time since donning Adrian's mask, Ethan feared the curtain might rise on something he couldn't control.