Fated Marriage Spoiled by My Ice Billionaire novel Chapter 7

News spread like wildfire that she'd been called up to the CEO's office.

Everyone assumed Damian had questioned her closely, so by lunchtime, as she sat eating in the company cafeteria on the 10th floor, people kept shooting glances and whispering behind her back. It only made them all the more certain that the plagiarism scandal had really happened.

But none of it bothered Isabelle one bit while she ate.

She stayed perfectly calm and looked across the table at Harrison. "Mr. Osman, I'd like to take some time off starting the day after tomorrow."

Harrison noticed how drained she was, and with everything that had happened that day, he finally agreed.

Eleanor immediately chimed in supportively. "Yeah, you should rest. Once the security cameras are fixed, the truth will come out."

"I'm not taking time off because of this," Isabelle said. "I'll get everything sorted before I go so it doesn't cause trouble for the company. I'm just exhausted and need a break."

She didn't explain further. Instead, she pulled out her phone, sent Damian a $50 Venmo, and left a note: "Breakfast money."

Damian was upstairs in a meeting when his phone pinged.

The room was tense and deadly quiet. Everyone froze, holding their breath, wondering who'd dared forget to silence their phone. But Damian simply unlocked his phone and checked the alert.

The second he saw the Venmo, he let out a soft, unexpected snort of laughter.

All the executives in the conference room stared at him in shock.

It was the first time anyone had ever seen him so much as crack a smile.

Brian, standing right beside him, saw exactly what was going on.

"We'll adjourn for now," Damian said. "We'll resume this afternoon."

He tapped to accept the fifty dollars.

*****

After Eleanor finished eating, she saw the HR manager walk past, then leaned in to whisper to Isabelle.

"I heard from HR that the CEO's hiring a secretary—and he specifically wants a woman.

"You think Mr. Cross is finally gonna drop that ice‑king act?"

Damian had taken her fifty dollars without a second thought.

In Isabelle's mind, even someone pointing a blowtorch at him wouldn't be able to thaw that man.

Isabelle didn't argue or correct her.

Once she and Eleanor went their separate ways, Isabelle headed down to the underground parking garage and called Gary from her car.

She'd stood him up the night before, lying that her car had broken down and asking him to take it in for servicing.

The real kicker was that Nicole and Gary had run into each other that same night. Terrified Isabelle would catch them together, they'd pretended to be nothing more than casual friends.

Gary had waited at the theater entrance all night, but Isabelle never showed. All he got was Nicole mocking him.

Gary was quite the actor, and Isabelle could tell he actually liked her—so he'd jumped at the chance to take her car in.

She'd known he would.

When someone's got a guilty conscience, they'll bend over backward to make things right.

Sitting in her car, Isabelle adjusted her hidden camera and touched up her makeup.

Then she cast her mind back to everyone's expressions that morning.

Most of the people who'd been badmouthing her had acted normal, but one person in the crowd had stood out: someone with a faint, amused smirk, like they were enjoying the show.

It was Wendy Quinn.

She was the transportation director's daughter and one of the key designers on the team.

Everyone at work liked her—she was wealthy, good‑looking, and good at winning people over with small gifts.

Isabelle wasn't ready to jump to conclusions just yet.

*****

That afternoon, when the workday ended, she slipped out ten minutes early—the first time she'd left early since joining Cross Group.

She returned to her car, changed into a black tactical jacket and pants, then hid in a dark spot near the elevators to watch the departing cars.

She kept her phone ready, snapping nonstop photos, determined not to miss a single detail.

Finally, Wendy stepped out in her clicking heels, slid into her BMW, and slowly pulled away.

That was all the confirmation Isabelle needed.

She stood there deep in thought for several minutes before emerging from her hiding spot near the elevators.

She must have been in too much of a hurry, because she crashed straight into a tall, dark figure stepping out of the elevator.

Her white size‑37 canvas sneakers caught on his leather dress shoes. Her phone flew out of her hand, and her whole body pitched forward.

Then a strong, firm arm wrapped around her waist, yanking her upright and pulling her tight against his chest.

Isabelle slammed into his hard chest, and the hair tie holding her blonde ponytail snapped at the worst possible moment, sending silky blonde waves cascading over her shoulders.

This is a disaster! Am I just fated to keep running into him lately?

And why won't my stupid face stop burning bright red?

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