“How long were you standing there?” he asked.
“Long enough to hear you reduce me to a risk profile.”
“That’s not what I—”
“You called me manipulative,” I said. “For negotiating my own worth.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
Lydia took a step back. “Isabella, I never meant—”
“I wasn’t speaking to you.”
Ethan met my gaze, something brittle settling into his expression. “You don’t trust the Grants,” he said. “So why would I trust you?”
The words cut deeper than he probably intended.
“You’ve stood behind me for years,” I said quietly. “Did you ever think to ask why?”
His jaw tightened. “Because you’re resilient. Because you don’t need protection.”
“And that made me expendable?”
“No.”
“Yes,” I replied.
Lydia shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe I should leave.”
“No,” I said again. “Stay. This feels overdue.”
Ethan exhaled sharply. “You’re walking into a political minefield. And you think you’re immune because you’re smart.”
“I don’t think I’m immune,” I said. “I think I’m prepared.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“Then at least I chose the battlefield.”
Silence stretched between us.