The Price of a Fool's Choice

He seemed taken aback by my cold tone and looked away. He reached out to put a hand on my shoulder, a weak attempt at comfort.

“Don’t be like that. Isabella is just a kid. She just graduated, so young, no connections. I just wanted to help her.”

I turned and walked away. I couldn’t listen to another word. Every word he spoke was another small, sharp cut.

I heard him call my name from behind me, but I didn’t look back.

I didn’t break my stride.

The next morning, I deliberately missed breakfast with Michael.

When I got to the office, I went straight to my private development studio.

Michael had originally set up this dedicated studio for me within the company headquarters.

I kept all my design awards and game prototype models from over the years here.

But when I pushed open the door, I froze.

I froze in the doorway, the shock hitting me like a physical blow.

All the trophies and certificates in the glass display case were gone. Vanished.

The game posters I had drawn by hand, which once hung on the walls, had been replaced with cheap, generic landscape paintings.

But what sent me into a blind rage was seeing Isabella sitting in my chair.

My original game art was spread out in front of her.

A latte sat on the edge of the desk. She looked languid and relaxed, as if she owned the place.

When she saw me, a flash of panic crossed her face, but she quickly replaced it with her signature innocent expression.

“Sophia, you’re here. Mike said I could work here for a while. The main office is too noisy, it distracts me.”

Mike.

She called him Mike.

Not the more formal “Michael” that everyone else used.

That intimate nickname landed like a poisoned dart.

“Where are my things?”

Isabella blinked, her gaze evasive.

“What things?”

“My trophies. My certificates. My game models.”

“Oh, those. Mike said he put them away for now. He said those awards would put too much pressure on me.”

I stared at her, then turned and marched toward Michael’s office.

He was in a meeting with a few clients. He frowned when I pushed the door open.

“Michael, I need to talk to you.”

“Wait until my meeting is over.”

“Now.”

My voice was quiet, but it was cold and hard. The clients tactfully excused themselves, giving us the room.

When it was just the two of us, Michael impatiently loosened his tie.

“What is it now? Are you still angry about yesterday? You’ve been in this industry for so many years. Why are you picking on a newcomer?”

“My things. In my studio. Why did you take them? Where are they?”