Love And Revenge

Eighteen years ago, I finally left the foster home that had been both my shelter and my cage for fourteen long years—just one week earlier.

Cedarwood Haven. The name had always sounded too gentle for what it really was. It wasn’t cruel, not the way the world imagined those places, but it wasn’t tender either. The air always smelled faintly of bleach and boiled vegetables. The walls echoed with voices that changed every few months—kids who came and went, temporary ghosts with stories that blurred together.

I arrived when I was three years old, small enough to disappear inside donated clothes two sizes too big. To me, Cedarwood was the world. A bed that was mine. Meals that came on time. Rules that kept chaos away. They called it care; I called it survival. It wasn’t love—not really—but it was something. Consistency. The illusion of permanence.

By seventeen, I knew better than to expect more.

High school might’ve been easy for some, but for me, it was war. Not in the classrooms—I dominated those. Numbers made sense. Algebra had logic, fairness; it didn’t lie. People, on the other hand, operated on invisible equations I never figured out. Friendships required a currency I didn’t have. Still, the director at Cedarwood—Mr. Leary—believed in me. “You have a head for order, Ethan,” he’d told me more than once. “And guts. That combination will take you places.”

When he helped me land an interview at a company called Hart & Co., I almost didn’t believe him. One of Seattle’s most prestigious financial giants, famous for its skyscraper of glass and ambition.

College had been a dream locked behind the steel bars of money. Scholarships existed, but not enough; hard work wasn’t a currency that paid tuition. But Caldwell & Co. ran a charitable internship program for foster kids—Leary’s project, mostly. For kids like me, they offered a door. We just had to walk through it perfectly.

So here I was, dressed as neatly as someone with borrowed clothes could be. Crisp black pants, a white shirt pressed the night before, a tie so worn its pattern had nearly faded. Then I froze in front of the mirror.

No jacket.

I cursed under my breath.

“Take mine,” José said from the doorway, leaning casually on the frame. He’d been my closest friend since high school—one of the very few constants in my life. “You’ll look like you own the place.”

“I won’t. I’ll look like I stole from someone who does,” I said, grinning despite the nerves.

He tossed me the jacket anyway. “We’re the same size. Just take it. Go ace that interview.”

Sliding it on, I looked at my reflection again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. For the first time in years, I looked less like a foster kid and more like a man who had somewhere to belong.

Downtown Seattle glittered under pale sunlight. The city pulsed—buses groaning, pedestrians like veins moving through its steel body. Taxi windows reflected the world back at me in fragments as I approached the colossal glass tower that bore the name Caldwell & Co.

The building seemed alive: silver and glass breathing ambition. Every step I took toward those tall glass doors felt heavier with disbelief.

Inside, the lobby swallowed me. Polished marble floors, chrome beams that mirrored the sky, the quiet thrum of expensive air conditioning. The smell of coffee and money. People moved briskly, dressed like pages in a designer catalog.

I adjusted José’s jacket, straightened my tie, and approached the sleek reception desk. My throat was dry. Before I could even open my mouth, a voice met me from behind.

“Hello. Are you Ethan?”

Something about that voice halted my breath mid-step. It wasn’t just soft—it carried weight, like confidence had learned to flirt.

I turned slowly, trying to mask the tension under practiced calm.

She stood a few feet away—brown hair cascading in waves that flirted with golden light from the skylight above, skin kissed by warmth, and eyes… blue, piercing, impossible. An intensity that made me forget whatever I had planned to say.

“Yes,” I managed, my voice steadier than my heartbeat. “I’m Ethan. And you are…?”

Her lips curved into a smile that somehow made time hesitate.

“You don’t have to be so formal,” she said, her tone dancing between warmth and mischief. “I’m Isabella.”

“Nice to meet you, Isabella.”

She leaned slightly on the desk, casual yet deliberate. “I’m also the owner’s daughter,” she added, as if she were mentioning the weather—completely unaware that it made my entire spine stiffen.

“I see,” I said, instinctively straightening my posture. “Then maybe I should—”

She rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand. “Please. Don’t start with the ‘ma’am’ and ‘miss’ garbage. I’m eighteen, not eighty.”

I couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped me. “Okay. Isabella it is.”

“Perfect,” she said, clearly pleased. “Now, while we wait for the others—tell me about yourself.”

“There’s not much to tell,” I muttered automatically. Fourteen years of orphanage didn’t exactly make for cocktail conversation.

She tilted her head, studying me. “Then I’ll start,” she said brightly. “I’m eighteen. My father is Ray Hart. He owns all this,” she gestured vaguely, “and expects perfection in return. My mother died when I was ten.”

The words were smooth, practiced, but something in her eyes flickered—a shadow that didn’t belong in a place like this.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I’m an orphan. Foster care since I was three. No adoption, no family—just Cedarwood. I aged out last week.”

She didn’t flinch away or offer pity, just looked directly at me. “That must have been hard,” she murmured, sincerity softening her voice. “But you’re here, Ethan. That says something. You didn’t just survive—you kept going.”

“Survival’s easier than quitting,” I said. “You just keep breathing because no one’s going to do it for you.”

Isabella’s lips curved again. Not into a polite smile this time, but something rawer. Admiration, maybe. “I’d call that guts,” she said. “Or courage. Whichever sounds less like a Hallmark card.”

I chuckled. “You say whatever’s in your head, don’t you?”

“Usually,” she said unapologetically. “Makes things more interesting.”

The moment broke when a tall man emerged from an oak-paneled office—imposing, gray suit, steel posture. His presence commanded silence.

“Isabella,” he said lightly, but his tone carried authority sharp enough to cut glass. “Who’s this?”

She straightened. “One of the new interns you told me to meet—Ethan Cole,” she said, checking her tablet.

The man’s gaze swept over me like a scanner. “Nathan Caldwell.” His handshake was firm, calculating. “Six-month internship. You’ll rotate in Accounting. Strong numbers student, I see.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied carefully.

“Good. Isabella, take him upstairs. Introduce him to HR and Paul.”

“Paul?!” Isabella blurted, her lips tightening. “Why the hell is Paul—”

“Enough.” The steel in Nathan’s voice froze her mid-sentence. “Don’t question what you don’t understand.”

And then he was gone.

The silence that followed hummed like static. Isabella exhaled, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “Don’t mind that. My father eats alpha males for breakfast. You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t plan on sticking around long enough to become the meal.”

Her laugh was quick and bright. “We’ll see about that.”

We entered the elevator, and the reflective walls caught both our silent faces. She stood with the effortless poise of someone reminded daily she belonged anywhere. I stood beside her, trying not to wonder which floor my life would change on.

“Accounting’s on the fifteenth floor,” she said, voice suddenly calm, professional. “Dad’s office on the top. HR in between. Oh—and we have a very strict code about personal relationships.”

I looked at her from the corner of my eye. “Good to know.”

She smiled—slow, deliberate, unbothered. “Don’t worry. I always break rules I don’t like.”

The ping of the elevator landed like punctuation in the quiet.

“Here we are,” she said, stepping out. Her perfume—soft citrus and something sharper—lingered in the air.

I followed her into the hallway lined with glass offices and muted voices. For a second, I caught her reflection in the glass—those eyes, that certainty. She moved like she’d been born for this world.

I realized then that I’d walked into more than a career opportunity.I was walking into my future—and Isabella Hart was going to rewrite it.

“This is huge. Wow,” I muttered under my breath as I followed Isabella down a hallway that seemed endless — wide white corridors lined with mirrors and glass, where reflections of moving people flashed like scenes in a film. The polished marble floors reflected the ceiling lights so perfectly I could almost see the nerves on my face staring back at me.

Phones rang. Soft conversations mixed with the faint buzz of printers. Somewhere, the hiss of an espresso machine whispered from behind a frosted door. The air smelled like roasted coffee, citrus perfume, and money. It was clean, elegant, heavy with purpose.

Isabella moved effortlessly through it all, her heels clicking in a rhythm that matched her energy — fast, focused, unstoppable. Every step announced confidence and command, as if this place bent slightly toward her when she walked through it.

A laugh echoed nearby — bright, teasing, alive. “Looks like you brought fresh blood again, Isabella,” someone called out.