Dominic stared at the closed door of his office long after Celeste had gone—and longer still after Isabella had returned to typing behind her desk.
Something was off.
He could feel it. And he hated that he couldn't explain it.
It wasn't just her fainting spell last week, or the way her hands trembled slightly when she thought no one was looking. It wasn't even how she flinched every time he came too close.
It was the silence.
The calm, too-controlled silence she wrapped around herself like armor. A woman didn't carry herself like that unless she had something to hide.
And Dominic Volkov had built an empire by recognizing liars.
He stood and crossed to the wide glass windows, looking out over Manhattan's steel-and-glass skyline, but his mind stayed on Isabella.
He shouldn't care. She was an employee—temporary, at that. A resume with a polite smile. Replaceable.
But every time he tried to dismiss her, he remembered her eyes.
Wide and dark with something haunted. Something broken.
He hadn't seen eyes like that since his mother.
His jaw tensed.
He remembered Isabella collapsing. The way she refused to complain. The flash of panic on her face when he'd asked if they'd met before.
And her hands—how they always seemed to hover near her stomach.
He exhaled slowly.
He didn't like coincidences. And he didn't believe in accidents.
Dominic walked back to his desk and opened her file. A clean background. Columbia graduate. Quiet work history. But the references were thin. Too thin.
Who are you, Isabella Romano?
He tapped his fingers against the wood. He could have her followed. Investigated. It wouldn't be the first time. But something stopped him.
Instead, he picked up the phone.
"Ariana," he said to his assistant. "Clear my next meeting."
"But the conference—"
"Clear it."
He stood and walked out of the office.
Isabella looked up sharply, clearly startled. "Mr. Volkov?"
"Come with me."
She stood hesitantly. "Where?"
"We're going out."
"For a meeting?"
"No." His eyes held hers. "For lunch."
She blinked. "I—I can eat here."
"You passed out on company time. It's in my interest to make sure it doesn't happen again."
She hesitated, then nodded. "All right."
They rode down in silence. Her hands were clasped too tightly in front of her. He noticed the way her eyes darted toward the exit like she was bracing for impact.
They ended up at a quiet Italian bistro in Midtown. The kind of place where no one asked questions and the staff knew to stay silent.
Isabella sat across from him, visibly tense.
"You're making this feel like an interrogation," she said finally, after the waiter left.
"Maybe it is."
Her eyes narrowed. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"
He leaned forward slightly. "What happened to you?"
She froze.
"I don't mean the fainting," he said. "I mean the fear. The way you flinch every time someone looks too closely."
"I don't flinch."
"You just did."
She swallowed hard. "You're not my therapist, Mr. Volkov."
"No. I'm your boss." His voice dropped. "And if you keep hiding something that affects your performance, I'll find out what it is. One way or another."
Her spine stiffened. "I'm not hiding anything."
Lie.
He knew it like he knew his own name.
But what startled him was the way it made him feel—not angry. Not betrayed.
Protective.
The waiter returned with their plates, and Isabella murmured a thank you. She picked at her food, barely eating. Her fingers trembled slightly around the fork.
She looked up suddenly. "Why did you really call off your engagement?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "That's none of your business."
"No. But neither is my personal life."
Touché.
His lips curved. "You don't strike me as the type to throw a punch."
"I'm not." Her voice was quiet. "But I've learned to defend myself."
Dominic leaned back, watching her. She was still hiding something. But for the first time, he didn't want to rip it out of her.
He wanted to wait until she trusted him enough to say it herself.
And that terrified him more than anything.