The restaurant Isabella chose was the kind of place where silence had weight, and every sound every step, every clink of glass felt intentional. Crimson velvet seats, dim amber lights, and a pianist playing something soft and tragic in the corner. The atmosphere was built not for comfort, but for tension disguised as elegance.
Eleanor walked in three minutes before the reservation time.
He spotted her immediately.
Isabella Moreau sat with her back straight, fingers relaxed around a wine glass she hadn't touched. Her hair fell in a smooth cascade over one shoulder, her white blazer sharp enough to slice through arrogance itself. She looked like someone who ruled the city, not someone pretending to.
But tonight, something about her posture was wrong.
Not weak.
Not fragile.
Just… carrying a quiet heaviness he didn't recognize.
He approached.
"You're early," she said without looking up.
"You too," he replied.
She let out a faint breath. "We should start charging each other royalties for reusing that line."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
He sat down. A waiter approached, but Isabella raised a hand. "Give us a moment."
The waiter bowed away.
Eleanor folded his hands. "You called for this meeting. What's wrong?"
Her eyes flicked to him dark, unreadable.
"Your father tried to contact me."
The words hit the table like a stone thrown into still water.
His jaw tensed. "When?"
"This afternoon."
"What did he say?"
"He wanted to 'discuss the terms of our upcoming union,'" she replied coolly. "Which is interesting, because I was under the impression he wasn't invited to the negotiating table."
"He's not," Eleanor said sharply.
"Then perhaps you should tell him that," she said. "Before he calls again."
Eleanor exhaled, leaning back. "He's testing boundaries. He does that with every situation he can't control."
"Then control him," Isabella said.
He stared at her. "If that were easy, don't you think I would've done it already?"
Something flickered in her gaze something dangerously close to empathy, though she'd deny it if accused.
"Chaos is fine," she said softly. "Interference is not."
He held her stare, pulse a slow, steady burn.
"I'll handle him," he said.
"Good."
But the tension didn't ease.
Not even close.
The pianist shifted melodies, a slow, melancholy note settling over the table.
Isabella finally took a sip of her untouched wine.
Then another.
Eleanor frowned. "You don't drink during negotiations."
"Tonight isn't negotiation."
"Then what is it?"
"A warning."
He lifted a brow. "A warning for who?"
"For us," she said simply.
There was a strange hollowness in the words. Not fear. Not regret. Something sharper, like someone who had already counted the cost of every possible failure.
"Isabella," Eleanor said slowly, "tell me what happened."
She didn't rush.
She rarely did.
Finally, she set her glass down and said:
"My father tried to renegotiate the deal."
His heartbeat stuttered just once.
"What deal?" he asked.
"Our marriage," she said. "He believes the current arrangement is too risky. He wants more leverage. More control. More insurance that you won't bury the Moreau name the moment our contract ends."
Eleanor let out a cold breath. "And what did you tell him?"
"That if he touched this arrangement again," she said, voice calm, "I would walk away from the family entirely."
He stared at her.
No blink.
No breath.
Just the weight of her words sinking into him.
"You threatened to cut ties with your own family?" he asked, disbelief threading through his voice.
"Yes."
"For me?"
"For this," she corrected sharply. "For the plan. For the agreement we made."
"But I'm part of that agreement," he said, leaning in.
Her eyes hardened. "Don't make this sentimental, Eleanor. It wasn't for you. It was for control."
He shook his head, a dry laugh escaping him. "You realize what cutting ties with the Moreau family means, right?"
"Yes," she answered.
"It means losing your inheritance."
"I know."
"It means losing power."
"I know."
"It means losing your position."
"Eleanor," she snapped, "I said I know."
Silence tightened around them.
The pianist hit a harsher note, as if listening.
He studied her really studied her.
The slight tremor in her fingers when she reached for the glass again.
The tension in her shoulders she tried to hide.
The way she avoided looking him fully in the eyes.
"I didn't expect you to go that far," he said quietly.
Isabella set the glass down with a soft clink. "I didn't do it for dramatics. I did it because the Moreau family has been slipping for months. My father thinks he's being clever, but he's desperate. And desperate men make foolish choices."
"And what about you?" he asked.
"What about me?"
"Are you desperate?"
Her lips parted just slightly.
Then she looked away.
"For the first time," she admitted, "I might be."
Eleanor felt something shift.
Not outside.
Inside.
A tightening.
A pull.
A sense of gravity that wasn't supposed to exist between them.
He leaned forward.
"What aren't you telling me?" he asked.
Isabella's jaw tightened. She didn't speak immediately. Her eyes stayed fixed on the table, as if what she was about to say might break something she couldn't put back together.
Finally:
"My father is planning to sabotage the announcement."
Eleanor froze.
"How?"
"A leak."
His breath stilled.
"He's going to leak," she continued, "that our marriage is fake. That it's a manipulation an alliance built on desperation."
"Is he insane?" Eleanor hissed.
"No," she said bitterly. "He's afraid. Afraid of losing everything."
"And he's willing to destroy you in the process?"
Her silence was answer enough.
Eleanor's chest tightened not with anger.
With something far more dangerous.
"Isabella," he said quietly. "Look at me."
She hesitated.
Then lifted her chin.
Her eyes were not the eyes of a woman breaking.
They were the eyes of a woman bracing for impact.
"We fix this," he said. "Together."
"That's not how this works."
"It is now."
"For how long?" she asked. The words were soft but sharp, a blade wrapped in silk. "Until the contract ends? Until you find something better? Until you remember why you hate my family?"
He didn't flinch.
"You think I'm going to let your father destroy you?" he asked.
"I think," she replied evenly, "that you underestimate how far a parent will go to protect their legacy."
"And you?" he countered. "How far will you go to protect yours?"
Her breath hitched barely.
Then she whispered:
"As far as I have to."
Their eyes locked, heat and cold colliding in the space between them.
The pianist switched songs again.
Something softer.
Something sad.
Isabella looked away first.
"This dinner was a mistake," she murmured.
"Why?"
"Because we can't afford to blur lines."
Eleanor leaned in, voice low, almost a growl.
"What line did I cross?"
"The one where you start to sound like someone who cares."
He didn't speak.
Couldn't.
Because she was right.
And she was wrong.
He stood up slowly.
"We're not done," he said.
"We are," she insisted. "For tonight."
He leaned closer.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we strike first."
Her breath stalled.
"What do you mean?"
"We leak our engagement ourselves."
Her eyes widened just barely.
A crack in the armor.
"On our terms," he said. "With our narrative. Before anyone can twist it."
Isabella swallowed, voice softer. "And if it fails?"
"It won't."
"And if it does?"
"I'll take the fall," he said.
She went still.
Completely still.
For the first time that night, she looked at him not as a partner, not as a threat, not as a tool.
But as a man standing between her and the world.
A slow exhale left her.
"Tomorrow morning then," she whispered.
"Yes."
He stepped back.
She didn't reach for him.
He didn't touch her.
But something had shifted subtle, sharp, irreversible.
As he walked away, the pianist played a final soft note that hung in the air like a promise.
Or a warning.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
For both of them.