Their gazes slid past her shoulder, toward the door behind her.
Ethan entered a step later.
He did not walk to her side.
He crossed the room and stopped behind Lydia Grant’s chair, adjusting the placement of her seat with the ease of a man who had performed that gesture countless times before. She did not look up at him, but the corner of her mouth curved, just slightly, in acknowledgment.
Isabella stood still for a heartbeat too long before moving toward the only empty chair at the far end of the table.
Lunch unfolded like a ceremony everyone else had rehearsed.
Wine was poured. Dishes were served. Updates were exchanged about hospital projections, investor confidence, and the reassuring language that could be used to mask paralysis as patience.
No one asked Isabella anything.
No one needed to.
“You have been indispensable,” one of the directors said to Lydia, lifting his glass. “Your composure has steadied the board during a difficult transition.”
“I am only doing what Julian would expect,” Lydia replied. “Stability is everything.”
Ethan remained behind her, his posture impeccable, his gaze never drifting far from her line of sight.
When Clara stood, the room fell silent at once.