A Six-Month Deal We Call Love

POV Emilia/Isabella

“Isabella, darling, you look absolutely radiant today. That blouse is divine—where did you find it?”

Brittany’s voice slices through the pre-meeting chatter like sugar-coated glass.

I don’t look up from arranging my reports, but I can feel her predatory smile from across the conference room. The others are already circling her like moths to a flame, all giggles and breathless compliments.

“Target,” I say, sliding the Q4 flash drive between my fingers. “Clearance rack.”

The lie rolls off my tongue effortlessly. The blouse cost more than most people’s rent, but Brittany doesn’t need to know that Isabella Asher shops anywhere besides discount retailers. The woman who calls herself Isabella Asher, anyway.

“Oh, how practical of you.” Brittany’s laugh tinkles like breaking crystal. “I just adore how you make budget fashion look so… adequate.”

I finally glance up, catch her wide blue eyes sparkling with malice. “Thanks. I aim for adequacy in all things.”

Sarah from Marketing giggles. “Isabella, you’re so funny. I wish I had your confidence.”

If only you knew, I think, but I just smile. The kind of smile that says absolutely nothing while revealing everything about how little I think of this entire exchange.

The conference room door opens with its familiar pneumatic hiss, and Adrian Marlowe strides in like he owns the place. Which, technically, he does. No pleasantries, no wasted motion—just pure, efficient authority in an expensive suit.

“Let’s begin.”

Two words. That’s all he ever needs to command absolute silence.

I slot the flash drive into my laptop, fingers steady as I navigate to the presentation folder. Around the table, everyone settles into their performance of Professional Competence. Brittany’s still smiling that razor-blade smile.

The projector hums to life. I click to the first slide, and my blood turns to ice.

It’s me. Naked. In my apartment. A photo I definitely never took, definitely never shared, and definitely never intended for the wall-sized screen of Marlowe Enterprises’ main conference room.

The silence that follows isn’t just quiet—it’s the kind of vacuum that happens right before explosions. I can feel twelve pairs of eyes burning holes through my skin, can practically hear the collective intake of breath.

But here’s the thing about growing up with a father who could buy and sell small countries: you learn to keep your face blank when the world implodes.

My pulse spikes to hummingbird levels, but my hands don’t shake. I turn slowly to find Brittany’s eyes across the polished mahogany table. They’re wide with fake surprise, absolutely glittering with satisfaction.

And suddenly last night’s random “password reset” email makes perfect sense. The one I ignored because I was running on four hours of sleep and three cups of coffee.

“Check the next slides,” Adrian says, his voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. Bored. Almost irritated. “If they’re clean, proceed.”

I delete the image without ceremony, scrolling through the rest of the presentation. Q4 projections, market analysis, action items—everything else intact and professional. Of course. Brittany’s too smart to sabotage the actual work. Just my dignity.

Before I can open my mouth to address the elephant that just stripped naked in the room, my phone buzzes against the table. Mr. Wilson. Dad’s assistant.

“Brittany,” I say, voice steady as bedrock, “you can take it from here.”

Her victory smile could power a small city.

I step into the hallway, already knowing this call will destroy what’s left of my carefully constructed day. “Wilson?”

“Miss Thorne, I’m sorry, there have been complications.”

My stomach drops through the floor. “What kind of complications?”

“After the surgery. Your father has had a heart attack. The car is waiting downstairs.”

The hallway tilts slightly. I close my eyes, count to three, open them. Still standing. Still breathing. Still Isabella fucking Asher, who handles crisis like other people handle paperwork.

I push back into the conference room, where Brittany’s voice is already dripping professionalism all over my charts. Adrian glances up, that perpetually neutral expression giving nothing away.