Chapter 9

The restaurant was exactly the kind of place his mother preferred; exclusive, elegant, and designed to impress. Crystal chandeliers cast soft light over white tablecloths, and a string quartet played Vivaldi in the corner. The private dining room overlooked the city, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view that cost more per square foot than most people earned in a year.

Dylan arrived at 6:55 PM, precisely on time.

His mother was already there, resplendent in a navy Chanel suit, her silver hair swept into an immaculate chignon. She looked up from her wine glass as he entered, her sharp eyes assessing him instantly.

“You look tired,” she observed.

“Good evening to you too, Mother.” Dylan kissed her cheek and took the seat beside her. “I’m fine.”

“You’re never fine when you say you’re fine,” she repeated her words from yesterday, but this time with a hint of genuine concern. “Is it the Nakamura deal? I heard they’re being difficult about the merger terms.”

“The deal is progressing as expected.” Dylan accepted a glass of scotch from the hovering waiter. “Everything is under control.”

Catherine Frost studied her son with the intensity of someone who’d spent thirty years reading between his carefully constructed lines. “You’re distracted. That’s not like you.”

Before Dylan could respond, voices drifted from the hallway. His mother’s expression shifted to one of cool satisfaction.

“They’re arriving. Remember—be charming. Or at least, try not to be actively off-putting.”

“Your faith in me is overwhelming.”

“I know my son.” She patted his hand. “You’re brilliant in a boardroom and utterly hopeless at small talk. Just… try.”

The door opened, and the candidates began to file in.

Vivienne Sinclair entered first, her designer dress probably worth more than Isla’s entire wardrobe. She smiled at Dylan with practiced warmth, the kind that never quite reached her eyes.

Charlotte Beaumont followed, tall, confident, her handshake firm and businesslike. “Mr. Frost. I’ve heard impressive things about your restructuring of the European division.”

Anastasia Volkov glided in next, already speaking in flawless French to his mother, who responded in kind. Exactly what the Frost family expected.

And all Dylan could think about was Isla, probably home by now.

“Shall we sit?” his mother suggested, gesturing to the long table.

The dinner began with all the stiffness of a business negotiation disguised as social pleasantry. Conversations flowed around Dylan; stock portfolios, charity galas, summer homes in the Hamptons. The women were polished, articulate, clearly well-versed in the game they were playing.

“Mr. Frost,” Vivienne said, leaning slightly in his direction. “Your mother mentioned you’re expanding into the Asian market. How fascinating. I actually spent two years in Singapore working with…”

“Dylan.”

He turned to find his mother watching him with barely concealed irritation. He’d completely tuned out whatever Vivienne had been saying.

“I’m sorry,” he said smoothly. “You were saying?”

Vivienne’s smile tightened fractionally. “Just that I have extensive contacts in Singapore. Perhaps we could discuss potential partnerships over coffee sometime?”

“Perhaps.”

The noncommittal answer made his mother’s grip tighten on her wine glass.

Charlotte jumped in, clearly sensing an opportunity. “I’m more interested in your sustainability initiatives. The green energy investments were bold. Risky, some said, but they paid off.”

“Calculated risk,” Dylan replied automatically. “The market was ready for disruption.”

“Spoken like a true visionary.” Charlotte’s eyes gleamed with something that might have been genuine admiration or well-rehearsed flattery. It was impossible to tell.

The evening dragged on. Course after course appeared seared scallops, duck confit, deconstructed tiramisu. Dylan forced himself to participate, to ask appropriate questions, to pretend he cared about Anastasia’s thoughts on international trade policy or Charlotte’s latest hotel acquisition.

But his mind kept drifting.

Is she eating properly? Does she have anyone to talk to? Is she scared?

“…don’t you think, Dylan?”

He blinked, realizing his mother had asked him something. “I apologize, what was the question?”

Catherine’s smile was razor-sharp. “Vivienne was just saying that marriage should be based on mutual respect and shared goals rather than fleeting emotion. I said you’d likely agree.”

All eyes turned to him.

Dylan set down his fork carefully. “I think,” he said slowly, “that marriage should be whatever the people involved need it to be. Sometimes that’s a partnership. Sometimes it’s more.”

“How romantic,” Vivienne said with a light laugh. “Though I imagine someone in your position can’t afford to be too romantic. There’s too much at stake.”

“There’s always something at stake.” Dylan met her gaze. “The question is whether you’re willing to risk it for something that matters.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table.

His mother cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should move to the lounge for after-dinner drinks?”

As the group shifted locations, Dylan felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He discreetly checked the screen.

Marcus: Sir, you asked me to inform you if Miss Brown deviated from her normal routine. She just entered Mercy General again. Second visit today.

Dylan’s blood ran cold.

Second visit. Why would she need to go back?

His mother appeared at his elbow. “Put that away,” she hissed. “This is important.”

“I have to go.”

“Absolutely not.” Her grip on his arm was surprisingly strong. “You will not embarrass me by walking out of this dinner.”

“Mother…”

“Whatever it is can wait.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you have any idea how much effort went into arranging this? How many favors I called in? You will stay, you will be charming, and you will select at least two candidates for follow-up meetings.”

Dylan looked at his mother’s determined face, then down at his phone.

Second visit today.

Something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut, the same instinct that had saved him in countless business deals.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I have to go.”

He pulled free and headed for the door, ignoring the shocked whispers behind him.

“Dylan Frost, if you walk out that door…”

But he was already gone.