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“How do you know I did that?”

“Just a guess. Besides, you’re not denying it.” I smirk and settle back in my chair, crossing my arms.

“I couldn’t take the jet whenever I wanted,” he mutters, looking genuinely annoyed. “I had to have Dad’s permission, and he rarely let me go on a random day.”

I laugh; I can’t help it. Sebastian’s eyes narrow and he scowls at me. “What?”

“Did you just hear yourself? You admitted to having a private jet, but poor you, because you didn’t get to use it whenever you wanted to.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being who I am.”

“No, but if you’re trying to get viewers to believe you can empathize with them, you can’t act like a spoiled brat who owns a private jet. Believe me, where I grew up, most people don’t even have the money to fly commercial. Vacations aren’t an everyday thing; they’re a luxury that most folks cannot afford to indulge in. These are the people you’re going to have to speak to, Sebastian, the people you need to hear you.”

His eyes stay on mine, but they aren't narrowed anymore. They’re speculative, curious. “Where did you grow up?”

The question catches me off guard. “El Barrio,” I answer.

“Where?”

I choke back a laugh. “Spanish Harlem?”

“Oh.” His expression remains carefully neutral, but he doesn’t comment further. Instead, he settles back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other knee. “You were saying something about getting out of here?”

“Yes,” I say, following his quick pivot.

“Why? We’re on work hours. We’re not going to my place or yours, or a hotel.”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting,” I snap, hating the flush rising in my cheeks. “You’re too high-strung here. You can’t practice being normal if you can’t relax. Let’s go somewhere and just chat. Help the person come out from behind the robot.”

“The robot is my father,” Sebastian shoots back.

“Okay, well, to be honest, you’re not too far off yourself. So, where do you want to go? Where do you like to have lunch?”

Sebastian blinks at me.

“I’m not talking about business deals at places with thousand dollar bottles of wine,” I add. “I’m talking about lunch. Coffee. Sandwiches.”

“Sandwiches?” His eyebrows rise.

“A sandwich. Two pieces of bread? With things stuffed inside⁠—”

“I know what a sandwich is, Isabella.”

“God, Sebastian.” I shove myself up from my chair, throwing my hands in the air. “This isn’t working. I’m taking you to a café, and we’re going to talk like normal human beings about normal things, not about jets or personal chefs or ski vacations in Aspen.”

“I prefer Courchevel.” A full grin hovers over his mouth, one that only grows when I let out a sound of exasperation.

“Just… come on. And we’re walking. No hired car service.”

“You use a car service,” he points out, standing up and adjusting his blazer.

“For work. It’s a work expense. Come on, I know where to go.”

I regret my decision to walk like a “normal” person almost immediately due to the heat. But it isn’t too bad once we cross the street to walk the several blocks’ distance in the shade.

“So, this is what it feels like to be a normal person?” There’s a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

“You’re needling me,” I accuse.