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“I can. Read the terms.” I slide the page back to her. “My father will never apologize in public, and if you put that in front of him, he’ll fire your firm before you finish the sentence. Find another way.”

Her jaw works. She doesn’t argue, because she knows I’m right about that much, and I watch her hate it.

Then I pull out the first page: the broadcast interview, scheduled for Thursday.

I sign it in one hard stroke.

“One page,” I say. “Prove it works, and we’ll talk about the next one.”

“Phase one deliverables will be on your desk tomorrow morning.”

She holds out her hand. I look at it for a long moment before I take it. The jolt runs up my arm, exactly like it did in the bar. My grip tightens for a split second. So does hers.

When she reaches the door, I speak again, quietly enough that no one outside will hear.

“Isabella.”

She stops.

“If this fails, I take the fall.” I hold her gaze. “So do you.”

8

SEBASTIAN

For three days, I pick her plan apart like a vulture at roadkill.

I veto her social media rollout on Monday. I veto the employee town hall on Tuesday. Each time, the page comes back to her with one word on it, and each time, a revised version is on my desk by morning, routed around my objection like water around a rock.

I question every number. I send back every draft with red ink in the margins. I make her present the interview prep to me twice, then a third time at seven a.m., just to see if she’ll crack.

She doesn’t. Every logistical problem I raise, she has a contingency for. Every budget line I question, she has an offset I hadn’t considered. Twice, she catches mistakes in my numbers, and she does it in front of Aaron, without gloating, which is somehow worse.

The executive floor has noticed. Nobody walks into my office without knocking, and she does it four times a day. Every time my door closes behind her, the floor goes quiet. Every time it opens, a dozen heads drop toward a dozen screens.

On Wednesday, I come back early from a lunch and hear Grace whispering at the assistants’ station. “There’s a pool going on whether she makes it to Friday. Marketing has her out by Thursday.”

“I’ve got a hundred on her,” someone says. “Did you hear them yesterday? I’ve never heard anyone yell back at him.”

They see me and go silent so fast it’s almost funny. I walk past without a word. Grace looks like she might faint.

On Thursday, I’m downstairs at six thirty as the TV crew sets up in the atrium.

“I don’t need that,” I say, dodging a makeup sponge.

The makeup artist retreats a full step. Aaron, leaning against a pillar, jingles his keys.

“Want me to do it instead?” he asks.

“A national broadcast? You’d have a heart attack, and then I’d have to raise your kids. Maya would be running the CFO’s office by Friday.”

“Hilarious.”

“Mr. King, you’re on in twenty minutes,” the makeup artist says. He doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “Ms. Medina specifically said⁠—”

“I don’t care what Ms. Medina said.” My temper finally has somewhere to go. “Where the hell is she? She set up this circus, and she can’t be bothered to⁠—”

“I’m here, Mr. King.”