Chapter Twelve

Isa sprinted into the reception, her heels clicking against the polished floor. Forcing herself to slow down, she pressed her lips together, steadying her breath. The room exuded elegance—plush wine coloured sofas, quiet conversations, and a glass door swinging open and shut in a rhythmic flow. A gallery banner pointed toward the adjoining room.

Dabbing her sweat with a handkerchief, Isa approached the reception desk. The cool AC dried the lingering perspiration. She forced a polite smile, inclining her head slightly.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” the receptionist replied, her ebony-black hair sleek against her blue blazer. “How can I help you?”

“I want—”

“Thank God you’re here!”

A deep voice boomed across the room, turning heads. A towering man in a black suit clapped his hands together, exuding both authority and impatience. Mr Johnson, head of HR.

“Good morning, Mr Johnson,” the receptionists chorused.

He dismissed them with a wave before fixing his gaze on Isa. “Why are you just arriving, Miss Isabella?” He checked his wristwatch. “You’re ten minutes late.”

Isa bowed instinctively, clasping her hands. “I’m so sorry, sir. I— I couldn’t find a taxi in time.”

Mr Johnson’s gaze swept over her—neatly tied ponytail, delicate features, dangling earrings that shimmered under the lights. Then, his brows furrowed. Creased shirt. Wrinkled skirt. Polished yet undone. With a sigh, he placed his hands on his hips, shifting his gaze toward the grand staircase.

Isa felt the weight of his stare like a spotlight, exposing every flaw. Heat crept up her neck. She folded her arms, rubbing them as if shielding herself from judgment. A soft giggle drifted from the receptionists, their eyes glued to a phone, yet doubt gnawed at her.

Were they laughing at me?

Her throat tightened. She smoothed her collar, but the wrinkles remained.

A fleeting thought urged her to turn around, walk out, and never look back. But before she could dwell on it, Mr Johnson’s voice anchored her in place.

“Follow me.”

Isa forced a nod, trailing behind as they ascended the lush green-carpeted stairs and navigated a maze of corridors. Finally, he pushed open a door.

Isa stepped inside, momentarily stunned. The vast room gleamed—crisp white walls, sleek black tiles, a high ceiling that seemed to stretch endlessly. Stunning paintings adorned the walls, each one a masterpiece.

A small smile touched her lips.

Art…

It turned nothing into beauty. Did these artists feel the same rush she once had when finishing a song—the thrill of creation? How did it feel to see their work displayed for the world to admire?

A familiar image surfaced in her mind: translucent blue eyes, glowing with excitement. She could still see his vibrant smile as he once showed her his artwork—a painting of a woman cradling a baby, her gaze brimming with affection. His dream had always been to become a painter like his father.

Isa’s smile widened at the memory.

Had he made it? Was he happy now?

A pang struck her chest at the thought of Nelson. Shaking off the nostalgia, she refocused.

This is your life now, Isa.

Her mother’s words echoed in her mind: “Forget music, Isa. It’s not your path. Focus on your career and make your mother proud.”

Isa exhaled and nodded to herself, as if reaffirming her purpose.

“Miss Isabella.”

She blinked, turning sharply as Mr Johnson tapped her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, biting her lip.

And then, she noticed him.

A man stood before a painting, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit. Hands in pockets, posture relaxed yet commanding. Isa’s eyes caught the glint of his wristwatch and the gleam of his polished shoes.

Those must be expensive.

Isa’s mouthed “Wow!”

This had to be the elusive CEO of Nova Painting Company—the unseen figure behind it all. Standing behind him, curiosity flared inside her. At the same time, her pulse pounded wildly.

What kind of boss could he be? Cold? Demanding?

She had prayed for a reasonable employer. Her last one had been ruthless, squeezing the life out of her with impossible demands. She never wanted to relive that.

“S-Sir,” Mr Johnson stammered.

Isa’s brows lifted slightly when she noticed Mr Johnson’s trembling hands.

Why is he so nervous? Isa turned back to the man before her.

As he slowly withdrew one hand from his pocket to check his wristwatch, Isa held her breath.

“Fifteen minutes late.” His voice cut through the air, cool and impassive.

Then, he turned.

The eyes.

A shade of blue so distinct, so familiar, that her breath caught.

No. It couldn’t be.

Her mind scrambled for logic, for reason, but the memory surged before she could stop it.

A boy, grinning as he held up a canvas, excitement brimming in those same translucent blue eyes. A boy who once told her to never give up.

The realization hit her like a wave, sweeping away the air in her lungs. Her lips parted. A whisper escaped before she could stop it.

“You...”

Mr Johnson blinked. “What?” he exclaimed.

Isa jolted, cheeks burning.

It’s him.

Even with her eyes closed, she was sure she would recognize him. The shape of his face, the way he carried himself—unchanged yet so different.

But his expression… Unreadable.

Her fingers curled at her sides as she forced herself to look again, searching for something—anything—that confirmed he remembered.

His brow furrowed, a flicker of something crossing his gaze. Recognition? Confusion?

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Am I imagining this?

The weight of the moment pressed into her chest, but before she could process it further, his gaze shifted to Mr Johnson.

“She’s incompetent as my PA.”

Isa’s head snapped up, her stomach lurching.

What?

“She’s late. Lacks self-control.” His voice remained cool, detached, like she was nothing more than a problem to be dealt with. “And you want her to be my assistant?”

The words struck her like a slap, leaving her frozen in place.

“I… I…” Mr Johnson stammered.

Isa’s mind reeled, heart pounding against her ribs.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her head: Don’t mess up this job with your incompetence.

The voice jolted her back to reality.

Isa’s mind spun, grasping for words, for a way to salvage this moment. Before she knew it, her knees buckled, and she dropped to the cold tile floor.

“I—I’m sorry, sir,” she stammered, forcing her voice to steady. “I couldn’t find a taxi in time. And…” Her fingers twitched at her sides. The truth slipped out before she could stop it. “You… resemble someone I once knew.”

Silence thickened the air.

Isa’s heart pounded against her ribs. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to stay upright.

Chris’s expression remained unreadable. Then, without acknowledgment, he turned to Mr Johnson.

“See me in my office.”

His jaw tightened as he strode away, fists curled at his sides.

Mr Johnson shot Isa a glare, his face tight with frustration.

“You…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head before hurrying after Chris. The door clicked shut behind them.

Isa let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her legs felt weak, but she locked her knees, refusing to collapse.

This isn’t my imagination. This is real.

Her hands trembled as she pressed them against her temples.

Was he pretending not to know me? Or… does he really not remember?

She swallowed hard, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on her chest.

“I will find out,” she whispered. “I will find you out.” But even as she said it, doubt curled in the pit of her stomach.

What if I do get fired? What will I tell Mother?

She shut her eyes, drawing in a shaky breath.

No. She wouldn’t fall apart. Not here.

With a deep inhale, Isa straightened her spine and smoothed her skirt. Then, lifting her chin, she forced herself to stand tall.

She won’t be leaving. Not yet.

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