Friday afternoon. Isabelle was peacefully working at her desk when her phone suddenly buzzed.
Marco: "Busy?"
She stared at the message for a few seconds before replying.
Isabelle: "Depends. Why?"
A few seconds later—
Marco: "Come with me to a meeting. Please."
She frowned. Meeting?
Isabelle: "Why me?"
Marco: "Because I need you there."
Her heart skipped.
An hour later, Isabelle found herself sitting beside Marco in a sleek conference room. And across the table… was Clara.
"Nice to see you again, Isabelle," Clara greeted with a polite smile.
"You too," Isabelle replied, forcing a small smile back.
The meeting started normally, but Isabelle couldn't help noticing the subtle things—Clara leaning slightly toward Marco, laughing a bit too warmly at his comments, brushing her hair back in a way that seemed… intentional.
And Marco? He stayed professional. Distant.
But somehow, that didn't make Isabelle feel better.
After the meeting ended, Marco stepped out to take a call, leaving Isabelle alone with Clara.
Silence.
Then—
"You don't look like his type," Clara said casually.
Isabelle blinked. "Excuse me?"
Clara smiled, but this time, it wasn't friendly. "Marco. He usually goes for someone more… outgoing. Less serious."
Isabelle crossed her arms. "And you would know that how?"
Clara shrugged. "We've worked together long enough." She paused, then added softly, "And we understand each other."
Something inside Isabelle tightened.
"Well," Isabelle said, keeping her voice steady, "things change."
Clara tilted her head, studying her. "Do they? Or are you just… temporary?"
That hit.
But Isabelle refused to show it.
"I don't think that's your concern," she replied firmly.
Clara chuckled lightly. "Maybe not. But you should ask yourself… how long someone like Marco actually stays."
Before Isabelle could respond, Marco returned.
"Ready to go?" he asked, glancing between them.
"Yeah," Isabelle said quickly, grabbing her bag.
The ride home was quiet. Too quiet.
Finally, Marco spoke. "What did she say to you?"
Isabelle looked out the window. "Nothing important."
"Isabelle…"
"She just said what everyone probably thinks," she muttered.
"And what is that?"
"That I'm not your type. That this… whatever we have… is temporary."
Marco tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "And you believe her?"
"I don't know what to believe," she admitted, her voice softer now. "This was supposed to be fake, Marco. No expectations, no complications… remember?"
He parked the car and turned to face her.
"And what if it's not fake anymore?" he asked quietly.
Her breath caught. "Don't say that."
"Why not?" he pressed. "Because it scares you? Or because you know it's true?"
Isabelle shook her head, emotions swirling. "Marco… you don't do serious. You don't stay. And I—"
"And you what?"
"I don't want to get hurt," she whispered.
Silence filled the car.
Marco's expression softened, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. "You think I don't get hurt?"
She looked at him, surprised.
"I've been hurt before, Isabelle," he continued quietly. "That's why I don't do serious. But with you…" He paused. "It's different."
Her heart pounded. "Different… how?"
He leaned closer, just enough to make her breath hitch.
"Different enough to make me want to try."
And suddenly, everything felt like it was crossing a line neither of them could uncross.