She examined her reflection with deep satisfaction.

A slow, knowing smile curved her lips as she tilted her head.

“Ethan, tonight, you will not be able to ignore me.”

Elsewhere, Isabella pushed open the heavy doors of Hawthorne Residence.

The familiar, comforting aroma of a home-cooked meal instantly surrounded her.

Eleanor emerged from the kitchen, a pristine apron tied around her waist.

She carried a steaming bowl of soup, her features softened by a gentle smile.

“You’re home, Isabella. You must be tired,” she said, carefully setting the bowl down. “Come, eat. I made your favorite.”

Isabella accepted the warm bowl.

The heat seeped pleasantly into her fingertips.

She lifted a spoon and took a small sip.

The rich, velvety flavor coated her tongue.

“Grandma, you didn’t need to cook again,” Isabella said, setting the bowl down with a sigh. Her voice was heavy with fatigue. “I could have managed something simple.”

Eleanor clicked her tongue softly, her warm eyes holding a quiet reproach.

“My dear girl. No matter how demanding work becomes, your health is the priority.” She reached out, gently cupping Isabella’s face. Her touch was both soft and firm. “Look at you. You’ve grown too thin.”

Isabella offered a weary smile.

Before she could speak, Eleanor continued, “Oh, that reminds me—Ethan has returned. He is in the study.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through Isabella’s thoughts.

“He’s… back?”

Eleanor nodded, her tone light. “Yes, not long ago. He’s likely buried in work again.” She gestured toward another full bowl. “Take this to him, will you? The man needs to eat.”

A moment of silence passed before Isabella drew a quiet breath and nodded.

“Alright.”

She turned, steadying herself before moving toward the study.

The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light cutting into the dim hallway.

Isabella paused, her heartbeat a quiet drum against her ribs.

She gently pushed the door open.

Inside, Ethan was at his desk, his focus entirely on the glowing laptop screen.

The light cast sharp shadows along the defined angles of his face.

His dark gray shirt fit his broad frame perfectly.

The sleeves were pushed up, revealing the sculpted lines of his forearms.

The soft creak of the door broke the silence.

His gaze lifted.

“What is it?” Ethan’s voice was cool, devoid of any warmth.

Isabella stepped forward, placing the bowl gently on his desk.

“Grandma made soup. She asked me to bring it to you.” Her tone was soft, almost hesitant, as if afraid of disturbing him.

Ethan’s gaze flickered to the bowl, then back to her.

For a fleeting moment, something unreadable passed through his eyes.

“Just leave it.” His attention dropped back to his laptop, his fingers poised over the keyboard.

The air in the study grew thick and heavy.

Isabella shifted her weight, searching for something, anything, to say.

“How was your day?” The question formed in her mind but felt pointless—a bridge too fragile to cross.

She exhaled lightly, her voice quiet. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” She turned toward the door.

“Wait.” Ethan’s voice stopped her mid-step.

She turned back, meeting his gaze.