Chapter 6

Isabella was still crumpled in the corner of the elevator, hands trembling in her lap, breath snagging in her chest like broken thread. Her ribs ached from trying to contain the sobs that insisted on surfacing. Mascara streaked down her cheeks, and her reflection in the mirrored panel above offered no mercy—just a blurred, hollow version of the woman who had walked into Halycon&Co a week ago thinking she could pretend nothing happened.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open.

Footsteps. Crisp, confident. Echoing across the marble.

A voice followed, slick with deference. "Chairman Sinclair, right this way..."

Isabella froze.

No. No, it couldn’t be.

She turned slowly, too stunned to move faster. Her hand darted to her face, trying to smear away the tracks of her tears, but she couldn’t erase the rawness. Her eyes dropped to the floor in front of her.

Polished black Berluti loafers. Ivory slacks. A belt hand-stitched in matte leather. A pale-blue pinstriped shirt beneath a tailored cashmere blazer, soft as sky.

Her heart turned to ice.

That voice. Those shoes. That man.

Vincent Sinclair.

Not just any powerful executive.

Chloe’s brother.

The man she had unknowingly slept with.

Her stomach twisted. How could she have forgotten his face? At university, she'd seen him once or twice through Chloe—always from a distance, always surrounded by other suits. But he'd been older then, less refined. Never had she imagined the man from that night would be... him.

She swallowed hard.

Vincent stood in the elevator threshold like it belonged to him—because it did. His presence filled the space with a cold brilliance, a solar flare of authority and wealth. She dared to lift her gaze to his face.

He looked the same. Devastatingly so. That sculpted jawline, the sea-glass eyes, the dispassionate gaze that had once watched her shatter in silence. Her blood boiled at the memory.

He doesn’t recognize me, does he?

Relief seeped in.

Of course he didn’t. One-night stands probably blurred together for men like him. She was just another warm body in a penthouse suite. It made sense. It also made her sick.

Still, the fact that she remembered every detail while he had the luxury of forgetting—that stung.

A familiar voice jolted her.

"You... Isabella Rossi? What are you doing in here?"

Her department manager, Elliot Shaw, had arrived beside him, his expression tight with unease. He recognized her, clearly mortified.

"This is the chairman's private elevator. You shouldn’t be here. Get up, now!"

Only then did Isabella realize what she’d done. In her daze, she had stepped into the executive lift.

She scrambled to her feet, rubbing her face with shaking hands. "I’m sorry, Mr. Shaw. I didn’t realize… I wasn’t paying attention."

"You’re not a new hire," he hissed under his breath. "You’ve worked here long enough to know better."

"I know. I know. I’m just… not myself today."

Her voice cracked.

"Well, that—"

"You're Isabella Rossi?"

Vincent’s voice cut through Shaw’s rebuke. Calm, quiet, and absolute.

She turned, throat tightening. Her eyes met his.

And held.

A beat passed. Two.

Her heart pounded.

Please don’t remember. Please don’t remember.

Vincent tilted his head slightly, then slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. His gaze traveled over her slowly, not lascivious—assessing. As if trying to place her.

"We've met, haven't we?"

Her heart stopped.

He knows.

But then—

"You're Chloe's friend."

The words dropped like a lifeline.

She exhaled sharply, almost too fast.

"Yes," she said, smoothing her blouse with shaking fingers. "Yes, Chairman Sinclair. I didn’t expect you to remember me. We met once, years ago. At Chloe's place."

Vincent nodded slowly, and for a second, something flickered in his eyes. But it was gone too quickly to catch.

He didn’t remember.

Of course he didn’t. It had meant nothing to him.

But it had been her first time.

And she would never forget it.