Dinner with Isabella wasn't romantic. It wasn't awkward either. It was something stranger—a careful unfolding of plans Ethan didn't remember agreeing to.
Ethan took another bite.
Whatever this was—some salmon glazed with citrus foam and expensive confusion—it tasted good. Which only made him more suspicious.
Across the table, Isabella was watching him without watching him. Her posture is perfect. Her fork held like a scalpel.
"You always think when you eat," she said.
He raised an eyebrow. "And you don't?"
"I calculate," she said. "Different process. Same result."
He leaned back slightly. "You know that's not a normal way to talk about dinner."
"I'm not trying to be normal."
That, at least, was something Ethan had stopped arguing with.
The waiter returned to clear the plates, moving like he'd been trained not to make a sound. As soon as he left, Isabella placed a leather folder on the table between them.
Ethan blinked. "What's this?"
"Your startup pitch deck. Revised. I made some adjustments based on current market trends and investor psychology."
He stared at her.
"You rewrote my pitch?"
"I streamlined it," she corrected. "Your tech is solid, but your narrative is weak. No investor cares about neural parsing speed. They care about disruption, profitability, and vision."
Ethan didn't say anything. He was too busy opening the folder.
Inside were printed slides, annotated margins, and bullet points scribbled in small, elegant handwriting. She'd redlined half his original content and replaced it with… better versions.
And that annoyed him.
Because she wasn't wrong.
"You worked on this?" he asked. "When?"
"I've been following your project since our second year."
He looked up sharply. "Why?"
Her eyes met his without hesitation.
"Because you were building something most people wouldn't notice. But I did."
Ethan didn't know what to say to that.
Part of him wanted to be flattered. Part of him wanted to be unsettled. Most of him just wanted to understand her.
"Isabella," he said carefully, "I appreciate the help. I really do. But why are you putting so much of yourself into this?"
She looked at him for a moment. Not calculating—just honest.
"Because I believe in it. And in you. And I want to be part of what you're building, not someone waiting for the results like everyone else."
He sat back, pulse uneven.
"I'm not a company," he muttered.
"No," she agreed. "You tend to work quietly on your projects until they become undeniable. However, attempting to do everything by yourself will lead to burnout before others recognize your efforts."
Ethan swallowed.
This wasn't about business.
Not really.
The second course arrived—something he couldn't pronounce with a foam swirl and edible flowers.
But he barely touched it.
Because now he was thinking.
About everything she'd just said.
And the fact that Isabella Wynn didn't speak in feelings.
She spoke in blueprints.
And somehow, he'd become part of it.
Somehow, it was easier to be around her when he thought she was pretending. But now he wasn't so sure anymore.