Isabella's POV
The private jet's cabin feels smaller than usual as we fly over the Pacific, maybe because Damien has barely spoken to me since we took off from JFK. He's reviewing contracts with laser focus, but I can feel his disapproval radiating from across the aisle like heat from a furnace.
"You're still angry," I say, closing my own laptop after reviewing Tanaka Industries' financial projections for the third time.
He looks up, those storm-gray eyes holding a mixture of frustration and concern that makes my chest tight. "I'm not angry. I'm terrified."
The honesty in his voice cuts through my defensive walls. When he puts it like that—when I see the genuine fear beneath his protective instincts—it's harder to dismiss his concerns as overreaction.
"Dr. Martinez cleared me for travel," I remind him, though we both know she wasn't thrilled about the fourteen-hour flight.
