Chapter 6: What Brooke Did Next
Isabella saw Brooke make the call.
She didn't hear it.
But she watched Brooke's eyes stay fixed on her the entire time, and that was enough.
She picked up her tray and moved away from Ethan's table.
Her supervisor was already walking toward her with the particular stride that meant a conversation was coming whether she wanted one or not.
"Miss Howe." He stopped in front of her.
His voice was low.
"I need you to take your break.
Now."
"My break isn't for another hour."
"It's been moved." He didn't look at her directly.
"There's been a complaint."
"From whom?"
He said nothing.
"From whom?" she said again.
"A guest." He finally met her eyes.
"She said you were fraternizing.
Spending excessive time with a guest in a way that made others uncomfortable."
Isabella looked across the room.
Brooke had put her phone away.
She was watching with the satisfied stillness of someone who had just moved a piece on a board.
"I was doing my job," Isabella said.
"I understand that.
But when a guest of this profile makes a complaint—"
"What profile?
She's a guest.
I'm staff.
That's the same profile as everyone else in this room."
Her supervisor's expression shifted — not unkind, but firm.
"Isabella.
Please.
Take the break.
Let it settle."
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she set the tray on the nearest surface, smoothed the front of her jacket, and walked toward the service corridor.
She didn't look at Brooke.
She didn't look at Ethan.
She pushed through the door and stood in the corridor, which was bright and plain and smelled like industrial cleaner, and she pressed her back against the wall and breathed.
Her mother had worked for this man for eleven years.
Had trusted him.
Had spoken about her to him.
And Isabella had spent tonight watching him dismantle the people who had wronged him with the patience of someone who had been planning it for a very long time.
She thought about the apartment on Calloway Street.
The loan her mother had never mentioned.
Paid back in full.
Every cent.
The corridor door opened.
It wasn't her supervisor.
Ethan's wheelchair came through the door — and behind him, the man in the dark suit, who held the door and then positioned himself just inside it, far enough to give them space.
"You shouldn't be back here," Isabella said.
"No," Ethan agreed.
"I shouldn't." He stopped a few feet away.
"She had you removed."
"My supervisor said it was a complaint about fraternizing."
"It was Brooke.
She called the event coordinator directly." He said it without anger.
"I'm sorry.
That was because of me."
"It usually is," Isabella said.
"When someone like her decides to make a point."
Ethan looked at her steadily.
"I want to offer you something.
And I want to be clear that it has nothing to do with tonight and everything to do with your mother, and the fact that I should have found a way to honor what she gave this company before it all came apart."
Isabella said nothing.
She waited.
"I'm rebuilding," he said.
"Meridian is operational but it needs people I can trust at the core of it.
Your mother ran accounts receivable for eleven years without a single discrepancy.
I need someone who learned from her."
"I'm a catering attendant."
"Tonight you are," Ethan said.
"What were you before your mother got sick?"
A pause.
"I was a financial analyst.
Mid-level.
I left to take care of her."
"I know," he said.
"I looked into it when I recognized your name on the staff list."
Isabella stared at him.
"You knew before tonight."
"I knew your name was on the list.
I didn't know about your mother until you told me." He held her gaze.
"I'm not offering you charity.
I'm offering you an interview.
What you do with it is entirely yours."
The corridor was very quiet.
"Why the wheelchair?" she said.
It came out before she decided to say it.
Ethan's expression didn't change.
"That's a longer conversation."
"Is it real?"
"The injury is real," he said.
"Whether I need the chair as much as I've led people to believe—" He stopped.
"That's the longer conversation."
From somewhere in the ballroom, a door opened.
Voices.
The event was continuing without them.
"Think about the interview," Ethan said.
He reached into his jacket and produced a card.
He held it out.
Isabella took it.
"Your mother would have told you to negotiate the salary," he said.
Despite everything, Isabella almost smiled.
Then her phone buzzed.
She looked down.
An unknown number.
A text message.
May you like
Four words.
*You don't know him.*
