“Oh…” She swallows. “Dear, haven’t you seen?”
“No. Seen what?”
I whip my gaze to Knox, and my world tilts. He’s gone statue-still, every muscle locked, every trace of warmth drained from his face. His sun-kissed skin turns pale in an instant.
That’s when I know something is very, very wrong.
Mrs. Porter holds out a folded newspaper, hands trembling as she opens it.
My gaze meets the headline:
VALE GLOBAL SET TO DEMOLISH HISTORIC MONROE’S RESTAURANT
My stomach plummets so fast I feel like I’m free-falling. Heat rushes to my face, then drains all at once. My vision wavers, like the room pulls back, shrinking around the single, brutal sentence.
“What—” My voice cracks. “What is this?”
Knox reaches for the paper, jaw tightening like a vise. “May I?” he asks Mrs. Porter, voice low.
She hands it to him right away.
He scans the article, each line carving deeper shadows into his features. I tear my gaze away, returning to the page—to the photo of my family’s restaurant.
To the wordsmulti-million-dollarluxury apartments in development.
Pending demolition.
And the name of the company responsible.
His company.
And worse… his name.
It’s right there, printed like a brand. The article credits the proposal to him. His idea. His project. His signature on the death sentence of the place that built me.
My throat closes. My hands shake so violently the cutlery rattles against the table.
Mrs. Porter touches my arm gently. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Truly.” Her voice trembles. The look she gives Knox is not unkind but disappointed, wounded, and then she walks away.
Silence crushes the air around me.
Knox lowers the newspaper, but he doesn’t speak.
“Knox…” My voice is barely a sound. Barely a breath. “Is this…” I swallow hard, meeting his eyes because I need the truth. “Is this true, Knox?”
His jaw flexes, and finally, he looks at me. “Isla…” he starts carefully, voice low and too controlled. “Let’s talk about this somewhere private.”
My pulse spikes. “Just answer me.”
He glances down at the newspaper again, then lifts his gaze to mine. “It’s… complicated.”
Complicated.The word detonates inside my chest. “That’s not an answer.”
He slowly exhales through his nose, steadying. “I was going to talk to you.”
“When?” My voice trembles. “Before or after the bulldozers arrived?”
His expression tightens. “It’s not like that.”
