"Are you going to write about it?"
"I'm going to write about all of it." She looked up at him, and for the first time all night, her expression was unguarded. "The foundation. The money. The way Brooke Sterling treated you. The way everyone in this room just... watched."
"And me?"
Isabella was quiet for a moment. "That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you're the man who pretended to be helpless so he could expose the people around him. Or the man who was actually hurt, and actually healing, and decided to stop hiding it."
Ethan looked down at his legs. His calf was still trembling. His hip ached. He was tired—bone-deep, soul-deep tired.
"I'm both," he said.
Isabella nodded slowly. "Good answer."
She pulled out the voice recorder again and clicked it off. Then she held it out to him.
"What are you doing?"
"Giving you the recording. It's yours—your story."
"You said you were writing an exposé."
"I said I was investigating." She smiled slightly. "I never said I was going to publish anything."
Ethan stared at the recorder in her palm. "Why?"
"Because someone in this room deserves to decide their own narrative." She pressed the device into his hand. "And I don't think you've had that chance yet."
The warmth of her fingers lingered against his skin. He looked up at her—really looked. The waitress uniform. The tired eyes. The stubborn set of her jaw.
"What's your real name?" he asked.
"Isabella Cruz."
"Is that the truth?"
"Does it matter?"