Two days had passed since that dinner at GlassDoor Gourmet, and on the surface everything rolled on like normal; meetings, calls, quiet nights with Isabella in my arms or hers.

But underneath it all, I couldn't stop thinking.

About my parents' words, the casual cruelty, the way they had dissected her like she was a problem to solve. About the way Isabella had sat there afterward, eating in silence, fork moving mechanically while her eyes stayed dry and distant. About how I had held her hand under the table like that small gesture could undo what they had said.

Balls!

I had replayed it over and over in my head,...