"You're distracted," Michael observed as we rode the elevator to the 40th floor of Hamilton Tower. "Thinking about a certain doctor?"

I shot him a warning glance. "I'm thinking about this meeting. The Westbrook acquisition is complicated."


"Mmm." Michael's knowing smile was infuriating. "That explains why you've checked your phone twelve times in the last five minutes."

I slipped my phone back into my purse. It had been a week since the gala, a week since Ethan and I had stood on the moonlit terrace talking until the last guests departed. We'd exchanged numbers that night, and since then, our text conversations had become a daily highlight.

"Focus, Michael. Westbrook Technologies is undervalued but has promising patents. If we move quickly—"


"We'll secure their AI division before their stock rebounds," he finished. "I know the plan, Iz. I helped create it, remember? What I don't know is why you're fighting this thing with Ethan."

The elevator doors opened, saving me from responding. Our executive team waited in the conference room, along with the representatives from Westbrook. I slipped into professional mode, pushing thoughts of Ethan aside.


Two hours later, we had a preliminary agreement. Westbrook's CEO seemed relieved rather than defeated—his company would survive under the Hamilton umbrella, even if he lost some autonomy.

"Excellent work," I told our team as we wrapped up. "Michael, can you handle the press release? I need to check in with Dad about the—"

I stopped mid-sentence as the conference room door opened and a familiar figure walked in. Ryan.

"Sorry I'm late," he said to the Westbrook CEO. "Traffic was a nightmare."

The CEO looked uncomfortable. "Mr. Matthews is our legal counsel," he explained to me.

Of course he was. The universe's sense of humor remained intact.

Ryan's eyes widened when he saw me. "Bella—Isabella. I didn't realize you'd be here."

"Clearly." I kept my voice professional. "The preliminary terms have been agreed upon. Your client can brief you on the details."

I gathered my papers, nodding to Michael to continue without me. As I headed for the door, Ryan stepped into my path.

"Can we talk? Privately?"

Every instinct told me to refuse, but the conference room was watching. "Briefly."

We stepped into an empty office down the hall. Ryan closed the door and turned to me, his expression earnest.

"I've been trying to reach you for weeks. You changed your number."

"Yes."

"Bella—"

"Isabella," I corrected automatically.

"Isabella," he amended. "What happened at the gala... finding out about the baby... I can't stop thinking about it."

"That's unfortunate, because I've worked very hard to stop thinking about you."

He flinched. "I deserved that. I deserved worse." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that once would have made my heart flutter. Now I felt nothing. "I made a terrible mistake with Victoria. We're not together anymore."

"Your romantic status doesn't interest me, Ryan."

"Please, just listen." His eyes pleaded. "When I saw you at the gala, when I realized who you really were... it all made sense. Why you were so independent, so different from other women I'd known."

"So now that you know I'm wealthy, I'm suddenly worth fighting for?" I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice.

"No! That's not it at all." He stepped closer. "I loved you, Isabella. I really did. I was just... confused. Victoria and I had history, and when she came back into my life—"

"You chose her," I finished for him. "And I found out I was pregnant the day I discovered you together. The day I lost our child."

Pain flashed across his face. "I will never forgive myself for that."

"That makes two of us." I moved toward the door. "Goodbye, Ryan."

"Wait." He caught my arm. "Is it true what they're saying? That you and that doctor are together now?"

I removed his hand from my arm. "My personal life is no longer your concern."

"You've known him for what, a month? You don't even know him."

"I knew you for three years," I replied evenly. "And look how that turned out."

---

The charity clinic in South Boston was a world away from Hamilton Tower's gleaming opulence. Here, peeling paint and outdated equipment served as stark reminders of healthcare inequality. I sat in the waiting room, watching as Ethan moved from patient to patient, his manner different than I'd seen before—gentler, more patient, though still direct.

He spotted me as he finished with an elderly woman, surprise crossing his face. We hadn't planned to meet today.

"This is unexpected," he said, approaching me. "Everything okay?"

"Fine. I was in the neighborhood for a meeting and remembered you mentioned volunteering here on Thursdays."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "In the neighborhood? This isn't exactly the financial district."

"Okay, I wasn't in the neighborhood." I smiled. "But I did want to see you."

"Give me fifteen minutes to finish up?"

I nodded, watching as he returned to his patients. There was something compelling about seeing him here, away from the prestige of Massachusetts General, choosing to spend his free time helping those who couldn't afford specialized care.

When he finished, we walked to a small park across the street. The autumn air was crisp, leaves crunching beneath our feet.

"So," he said after a moment. "What brings Isabella Sinclair-Hamilton to my humble clinic?"

"I had an interesting meeting today." I told him about encountering Ryan, leaving nothing out.

Ethan listened without interrupting. When I finished, he asked, "How did it make you feel? Seeing him again?"

"Empty," I realized. "Like I was looking at a stranger who once meant something to me."

He nodded. "That's healing."

"Is it? Sometimes I feel like I'll never fully heal from everything that happened."

"You won't," he said bluntly. "That's not how trauma works. You don't get over it; you grow around it."

His honesty was refreshing after Ryan's platitudes. "Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?"

"It's my personal one." He sat on a bench, gesturing for me to join him. "When I was twelve, my mother died of a heart condition that could have been treated if we'd had health insurance. That's why I became a cardiac surgeon. That's why I volunteer here."

I hadn't expected such a personal revelation. "I'm sorry about your mother."

"It was a long time ago. But it shaped me, just like your experiences shape you." He looked at me intently. "The question is, what will you do with your pain?"

The question hung between us, challenging and profound. "I don't know yet. But seeing you here today... it's inspiring."

"The great Isabella Sinclair-Hamilton, inspired by a doctor from the wrong side of Boston?" His tone was teasing, but I sensed genuine curiosity beneath it.

"Yes," I said simply. "Because you're real, Ethan. In a world where I've had to question everything and everyone, you've never been anything but authentic."

Something shifted in his expression. "Isabella—"

My phone rang—Michael, with an urgent question about the Westbrook deal. By the time I finished the call, the moment had passed, but something had changed between us. A barrier had fallen.

As we walked back toward my car, Ethan's hand found mine, his fingers intertwining with my own. The simple contact sent warmth spreading through me, more powerful than any passionate embrace.

"Have dinner with me tomorrow," he said. "A real date. No family emergencies, no chance encounters. Just us."

I smiled, squeezing his hand. "I'd like that."

For the first time since returning to Boston, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be.