The restaurant was all glass and steel, perched high above Midtown, its windows framing the skyline like moving artwork. Waiters glided between tables with the precision of dancers, every gesture calculated, every smile rehearsed.
Ethan walked in beside Walter, his stride deliberate, his expression carved into the mask Walter had drilled into him: cool, unreadable, Adrian Arden in flesh. He could almost hear Walter's voice in his head—posture upright, no unnecessary words, eyes steady.
And then he saw her.
Isabella Whitmore rose from her seat by the window, her posture effortless, elegance stitched into every movement. She wore a cream silk blouse, her dark hair swept back, eyes sharp and clear as glass. In photos she had looked distant, untouchable. In person, she was arresting. Ethan felt his chest tighten, a beat skipping in his heart before he could stop it.
He caught himself staring and quickly slipped back into Adrian's composed manner. He approached the table, extending a polite nod. "Isabella."
"Adrian," she replied, her voice even, carrying a weight of formality that reminded him of Walter's lectures. They sat.
The waiter placed menus in front of them, retreating with silent efficiency. Isabella folded hers without looking. "I ordered for us already. I assumed you wouldn't mind."
"Of course not," Ethan said smoothly, though his grin twitched at the corner, unbidden. He quickly swallowed it back. Adrian Arden didn't grin.
For a moment, silence stretched, broken only by the low hum of conversation around them. Isabella's eyes studied him, cool and appraising. Ethan reached for his water glass, careful, deliberate. But when the glass slipped slightly in his hand, he caught it too fast, splashing a little onto the tablecloth.
He laughed under his breath. "Guess my reflexes aren't what they used to be."
Her brows lifted—surprise flickering across her otherwise composed face. Adrian never would have admitted something so human, so flawed.
Isabella tilted her head. "You've been… different, lately."
Ethan straightened, summoning the excuse Walter had prepared. His voice dropped, steady but tinged with a faint vulnerability. "The accident. Some things… don't feel the same. Memory, reflexes. Even how I speak sometimes. Doctors call it trauma."
Her gaze lingered on him, searching, as if trying to pierce through his carefully placed armor. At last, she nodded slowly. "I see."
The food arrived—perfectly plated, precise. Ethan copied Walter's lessons: knife in the right, fork in the left, small deliberate cuts. Walter's voice echoed in his head: measured, elegant, dignified.
Isabella sipped her wine, eyes never leaving him. "My father said you've been avoiding meetings with the board. That isn't like you."
Ethan's pulse jumped. He forced a pause before answering, lowering his gaze just enough. "Crowds. They… unsettle me now."
Her fingers tapped the stem of her glass. "Unsettle you?"
"Yes." He let his voice soften in a way Adrian never would. "Sometimes it feels like too many faces staring at me all at once. Like I can't breathe." He chuckled quietly, masking his slip. "Odd thing for someone in my position, isn't it?"
Her lips parted faintly. Adrian Arden never admitted weakness.
"Perhaps," Isabella said slowly, "but honesty isn't something I expected from you."
He looked up at her then, catching the faintest trace of something in her eyes—not suspicion, but curiosity.
The main course arrived, steam curling off porcelain plates. Isabella cut into hers with practiced ease. Ethan followed, slow, careful. Still, when his knife slipped against the plate, the scrape of metal made him wince.
"Are you nervous?" Isabella asked suddenly.
He blinked. "Why would I be nervous?"
"Because you've never fumbled like this before."
For a heartbeat, Ethan forgot the script. He gave her a lopsided grin, warm and unguarded. "Maybe it's because I've never had lunch with someone who makes the whole room disappear."
Silence followed. Isabella's fork paused halfway to her lips. Her eyes flickered with something unspoken—shock, or perhaps something gentler—but just as quickly, she smoothed it away.
Ethan caught himself too late. He cleared his throat, straightening his back. "I meant… it's the accident. Sometimes my words don't come out right."
"Trauma," Isabella echoed softly.
"Yes." His smile flattened into Adrian's practiced neutrality.
The rest of the meal moved slowly, a careful dance of glances and guarded words. Isabella asked him about the upcoming merger. He recited Walter's lessons: real estate, energy, influence. She pressed on his health; he gave measured answers, every one tinged with that excuse. Yet in between, slips came—an amused chuckle at a clumsy waiter, a thoughtful hum when the dessert menu arrived, small signs of life Adrian never displayed.
Isabella noticed every one.
When the plates were cleared and the check discreetly handled, Isabella rose, smoothing her blouse. "You've changed, Adrian," she said simply.
Ethan stood, inclining his head. "Change can be… necessary."
She studied him one last time, something unspoken flickering behind her composed gaze, then turned and walked toward the elevator.
Ethan exhaled only when she was gone, his shoulders sagging with the weight of the mask.
Across the room, Walter lowered his newspaper just enough to glare at him. His eyes spoke louder than words: You fool. She's noticing.
But Ethan, heart still quickening, couldn't stop replaying that one moment—when Isabella's eyes softened, if only for a breath.
For the first time since stepping into Adrian's world, Ethan wasn't thinking about survival.
He was thinking about her.