Meanwhile…
"Do I need a reason to visit my fiancé's home?" Isabella asked.
There was a brief silence.
Martin did not react.
"Isabella," he said, tone even, "this is neither the time nor the place."
She blinked once.
Then she laughed.
It wasn't loud nor dramatic—which made it even more uncomfortable as she finally paused to take a breath, dragging her eyes over his figure.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, bringing a hand to her chest in mock realization. "Should I have booked an appointment, sweetie? Or maybe waited for an official invitation to your wedding that I somehow missed?"
No response.
She took a step forward.
"Because last I checked," she continued, her voice still calm, "I didn't get the fucking memo that my fiancé decided to get married."
The word hung there.
Fiancé.
Gray lowered his gaze slightly.
Martin's expression did not change.
"We will discuss this later," he said. "Not here."
"Later?" she echoed, a soft laugh slipping out again. "That's your plan? You want to pencil me in between your meetings and your new wife?"
Her eyes scanned him from head to toe.
"I leave the country for a few days," she went on, "and suddenly I'm watching my own fiancé's wedding announcement… On. A fucking. Vlog."
Her lips twitched.
"A vlog, Martin." She shook her head lightly, like she still couldn't believe it.
"Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?"
Martin inhaled slowly. "I said we will discuss this later."
"Discuss what?" she snapped, the first crack in her calm slipping through. "The part where you fucked me on Saturday and kissed me goodnight like nothing had changed before I took off to Italy… Or the part where by Tuesday you're hosting a wedding party with someone who is very clearly not me?"
Even the guards exchanged glances.
Martin did not.
"You are creating a scene, Isabella," he stated.
"Oh, I am?" she replied, her brows lifting. "That's what this is?"
Her laugh came again. "Oh my…"
"Maybe this is a prank," she added suddenly, almost to herself. "Maybe I'm supposed to laugh, clap, and ask where the hidden cameras are. I mean, I have to give it to the director, he really made it stand out loud enough."
Her gaze snapped back to him.
"Because there's no way this is real."
Martin remained still. "Isabella."
"Don't," she cut in, her voice dropping. "Don't say my name like that. Don't you dare."
For a moment, the air between them tightened.
Then she exhaled, dragging a hand through her hair before her gaze hardened again.
"Who is she?" she asked. "That thing you married. Who is she?"
Martin's jaw tightened slightly. "That is not your concern."
That did it.
A short, humorless laugh left her as she reached for the bag on her shoulder and, without warning, hurled it across the room.
It hit a glass vase on the side table.
CLASH.
The sound shattered through the hall as fragments scattered across the floor.
The guards' kept their heads down.
Gray did not move either.
Isabella didn't even look at the audience as her focus locked on Martin.
"Not my concern?" she repeated, her voice low now, controlled in a way that felt far more dangerous than shouting. "You marry another woman and tell me it's not my concern?"
Martin didn't raise his voice.
"We are not having this conversation here."
"Then where?" she demanded. "Over dinner? With candles? Should I dress nicely for that too?"
He held her gaze. "Yes."
The answer came without hesitation.
It stalled her for half a second.
"Tomorrow evening," he added. "We will sit down and address this properly."
She stared at him, searching for something that wasn't there.
No guilt.
No panic.
Just that same composed, infuriating calm. And it made her skin crawl.
"You're unbelievable," she said under her breath.
"And you," he replied, "are out of line."
That almost made her laugh again.
"Out of line?" she echoed. "Martin, you married someone else."
"And so?…" he asked, "you are the one barging into my home and destroying my property."
Her eyes flashed.
For a second, it looked like she might throw something else.
Instead, she let out a slow breath, shaking her head like she was trying to hold herself together.
"This isn't over," she said.
"I am aware of that much," he agreed.
Isabella's jaws tightened.
Then she stepped back, adjusting her glasses again, regaining that same composed exterior like nothing had slipped.
"Tomorrow, then," she said, though the edge in her voice didn't leave. "You owe me that much."
Martin didn't respond.
She held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned and walked out, her heels clicking against the floor like nothing had just happened.
The door closed behind her.
The hall fell silent again.
Only the broken glass remained.
• • •
Later that evening, Martin sat at his desk in a posture that, to anyone walking in, would pass easily as his usual composure.
The difference was subtle, buried in the small things. His elbow rested against the desk, his fingers pressed to his temple, and for once, the pressure there did not ease with time.
He stayed like that longer than he normally allowed himself to, as whatever occupied his mind had decided to settle in without permission.
"Sir?"
No response.
Across from him, his assistant stood, a tablet in hand, his eyes flicking up with uncertainty before trying again.
"Sir…?"
Still nothing.
Martin's fingers tapped once against his temple, absent-minded, like he was listening to something far removed from the room.
The assistant hesitated, then finally pushed a little louder.
"Sir!!"
That seemed to reach him. Martin blinked, his focus returning in stages, his gaze lifting as though he had just stepped back into the present.
"…Were you saying something?" he asked, completely unbothered by the fact that he had been mentally unavailable for an entire discussion.
The assistant stared at him for too long before quickly correcting himself.
"Yes, sir. I was going over the quarterly projections, the acquisition proposal, and the—"
Martin raised a hand slightly, cutting in without looking particularly apologetic. "Start again."
The assistant blinked. "…From where, sir?"
"The beginning." Martin confirmed.
"That would be about thirty minutes ago."
Martin leaned back in his chair, finally lowering his hand from his temple as if the act alone might reset his focus.
"Then you've had time to improve the delivery."
The assistant opened his mouth, closed it again, and nodded with the quiet resignation of someone who understood that arguing would only make things worse.
"Yes, sir."
He barely managed to restart before a knock interrupted.
The sound was soft, but it cut cleanly through the room. Martin's attention shifted immediately, his gaze settling on the door.
"Come in."
The handle turned slowly. For a moment, nothing happened, and then Victoria's head appeared through the gap, cautious and hesitant.
"May… I come in?"