30 days to Love You

Sparks

The morning sun bruised the sky a mottled purple, casting a grey pallor over the city of New York. Inside the Blackwell penthouse, the air was thick enough to choke on.

Isabella stood by the kitchen island, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the flash of the g*n, felt the violent shove of the waiter’s tray, and heard the terrifying, raw sound of Adrian’s voice screaming her name.

"Drink this."

She jumped slightly. Adrian was suddenly there, placing a glass of green juice next to her cold tea. He was already dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, his tie knotted with surgical precision. But his eyes were rimmed with red. He looked like a man running on caffeine and adrenaline.

"I’m not hungry," Isabella whispered.

"I didn't ask if you were hungry. I said drink it." His voice was rough, lacking its usual smooth baritone. "You lost blood yesterday. You look like a ghost."

Isabella took a sip, the bitter taste grounding her. "Thank you. I assume today is a 'stay at home and lock the doors' kind of day?"

Adrian adjusted his cufflinks, avoiding her gaze. "No. Today you’re coming with me."

Isabella blinked. "To the office? Adrian, the press is camped outside the building. They’re calling it an assassination attempt. If I go out there—"

"If you stay here, you’re a sitting duck," he interrupted, turning to face her. His intensity was almost physical. "Maximilian Cross has escalated. He hired a gunman to disrupt a charity gala. Do you think a locked door in a penthouse will stop him? My security team is good, Isabella, but I am better."

He stepped closer, invading her personal space until all she could smell was sandalwood and the faint, metallic scent of his fear.

"Where I go, you go," he said, his voice dropping to a command that vibrated in her chest. "I am not leaving you alone. Not today."

Isabella searched his face for a trace of the man who had wanted to divorce her a week ago. He was gone.

"Fine," she said, setting the glass down. "But if I’m coming, I’m not sitting in the corner coloring in a coloring book. I won’t be a prop, Adrian."

A flicker of something dark passed through his eyes. "Get dressed. Wear the navy sheath dress. The one with the high neck. It looks... great."

Blackwell Industries was a fortress of glass and steel piercing the Manhattan skyline. The ride up in the private elevator was silent, but Adrian’s hand never left the small of Isabella’s back.

When the elevator doors slid open on the executive floor, the tension was palpable. Assistants stopped typing. Heads turned. Whispers trailed in their wake like smoke.

“That’s her… the one who jumped in front of him…”

Adrian ignored them all, marching Isabella straight toward the double doors of the boardroom.

"Adrian," Isabella hissed, trying to match his long strides. "You can’t just drag me into a board meeting. This is a breach of protocol."

"I am the protocol," he snapped.

He pushed the doors open.

Around the long, oval table sat the twelve most powerful people in the company. The air in the room was stale, smelling of old money and nervous sweat. At the head of the table sat Damian Sterling, a silver-haired shark who had been trying to oust Adrian for years. To his right was Julian Hartley, the youngest board member, a man known for his charm as much as his ruthlessness.

The conversation died instantly. Twelve pairs of eyes landed on Isabella.

"Adrian," Damian Sterling said, his voice like grinding gravel. "We were discussing the catastrophic security failure at the gala. We didn't expect... guests."

"My wife is not a guest, Damian," Adrian said coolly, pulling out the chair to his right. "Sit, Isabella."

She sat, keeping her spine steel-straight. She felt the weight of their judgment.

"With all due respect," Damian continued, lacing his fingers together. "The stock is down three points this morning. The market is jittery. They see a CEO who can't even secure a charity ball. Having Mrs. Blackwell here, after she was... emotionally compromised yesterday, sends the wrong message."

"Emotionally compromised?" Adrian’s voice went deadly quiet.

"She was hysterical, Adrian," Damian said dismissively, not even looking at Isabella. "We need to project strength. Stability. Perhaps it would be best if Isabella waited in your office while the adults discuss the Kyoto merger."

The insult hung in the air, sharp and ugly. Adrian’s hands curled into fists on the table. He opened his mouth to eviscerate the older man, but a soft, clear voice cut him off.

"Mr. Sterling," Isabella said. She didn't raise her voice. She sounded bored. "If I recall correctly, the Kyoto merger hinges on the approval of the Ministry of International Trade and Industry, specifically regarding the import tariffs on Blackwell’s robotics division. Is that correct?"

Damian blinked, caught off guard. "Well, yes. But—"

"And," Isabella continued, smoothing the fabric of her dress, "the current stalling point is that the Ministry believes our environmental compliance reports are... let’s say, optimistic."

Silence rippled through the room. Julian Hartley leaned forward, a spark of interest lighting his eyes.

"She’s right," Julian said, looking at Adrian. "How does she know that?"

"Because I read the briefs," Isabella said, turning her gaze to Julian. "Unlike some, I don't use the executive summaries as coasters."

She stood up slowly. Adrian watched her, his expression shifting from protective rage to stunned curiosity.

"You are worried about the stock price, Mr. Sterling," Isabella said, walking to the window that overlooked the city. "You think the market is reacting to the shooting. It isn't. The market is reacting to the silence. They think Adrian is hurt. They think the leadership is decapitated. Hiding me in an office reinforces that fear. It says we are hiding wounds."

She turned back to face the table, her silhouette framed by the grey sky.

"But if I sit here," she said, gesturing to the table. "If the wife who supposedly 'saved' the CEO is seen engaging in high-level strategy the very next morning... what does that say?"

"It says we’re untouchable," Julian Hartley murmured, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Precisely," Isabella nodded. "It says the Blackwells don't bleed. We calculate."

For a long moment, no one moved. Then, Damian Sterling cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. He shuffled his papers. "I... suppose there is some merit to that logic."

"Excellent," Isabella said, sitting back down. "Now, regarding the Kyoto compliance... I suggest we pivot the narrative. Don't fight the environmental audit. Embrace it. Use the 'Green Tech' initiative Adrian launched last year as a shield. The Japanese delegation will lose face if they attack a company that is publicly outspending them on sustainability."

Julian Hartley let out a low whistle. He picked up his pen and pointed it at Adrian. "Blackwell, you’ve been holding out on us. I didn't know your silent partner was the brains of the operation."

Adrian didn't smile. His jaw tightened. He watched the way Julian was looking at Isabella with admiration, yes, maybe more.

"She’s full of surprises," Adrian said, his voice tight.