Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Knox
I answer the phone, but my gaze is still on Isla, watching her flee.
The door is slowly closing, erasing her retreating form from my view.
When it clicks shut, I can’t see her anymore, and it’s strange…because I want her back.
I never wanted her to leave, although I knew she should.
I guess the logical part of my mind that wasn’t thinking with my dick kicked in and made me answer the phone. I always answer when my father calls, but this is the one time when I wanted to ignore him.
“Knox, are you there?” Dad’s voice rumbles through the line.
“Yeah, I’m here.” I clear my throat to loosen the arousal still clogging it. Shame I can’t do the same for my fucking dick. There’s only one thing I can do to relieve the ache there. Well, technically two things, but that option just ran away from me.
“I didn’t see you leave the party. Everything all right?”
I drag a hand through my hair, staring at the mess I made in here—papers scattered across the floor and Isla’s boots abandoned beside the desk like proof of a crime.
Jesus, the taste of her is still clinging to my tongue, and the memory of feasting on her body writhes through my mind the way she did on my mouth.
“Everything’s fine,” I tell him, although everything is far from fine.
“I hope so, son” he continues. “You did good tonight. Your engagement caused quite a stir. The board and the investors were impressed, even though your bride-to-be could have made a better impression.”
He’s referring to the damn dress—the bait I fell for.
It all started with that. A poor attempt to get me to forfeit.
The moment I saw her, I began thinking of ways to punish her. But fuck, did I ever fall into my own trap.
I wanted to tear the damn dress off her, then I realized I really wanted to do it, but for all the wrong reasons.
Then Aunt Maureen came along, my devilish mind took over, and I couldn’t resist.
Of course, I knew I’d win the game. And of course, I knew my little artist wouldn’t be able to resist me. She and I have been dancing this war dance that walks the fine line of attraction. But it was supposed to be a game. A game I won. Yet I feel like the loser.
“I hope she’s not trying to pull some publicity stunt.” The disdain in my father’s voice pulls me back to the present.
“No. She won’t be doing anything of the sorts. She knows what she stands to lose.”
“Good. You’ve done well, son. Don’t let anything ruin that image.”
Too late for that. The corner of my mouth twitches. “I won’t,” I lie easily.
“Good. Keep up the act.”
Act?
God, I wish we were acting. That would be easier.
I know how to act. This… It’s something else I never saw coming.
“Sure thing, Dad.” I humor him.
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“See you.”
The line clicks dead.
Silence settles over the room again, thick and heavy. I exhale and lean back against the wall, scanning the office.
I can still smell her in here. The scent of her honeyed perfume and her sweet pussy.
The sound of her voice is still echoing through my head with her moans and the way she whispered my name right before I made her come apart.
For a man who prides himself on control, I certainly lost every ounce of it.
And judging by the state of my cock, control won’t return to me tonight.
Which means, if I’m playing it safe—which I have to—I need to sleep here in my office.
I can’t use one of the guestrooms because the staff will talk. And I can’t use my room, either. If I lie next to Isla Monroe with my cock like this, I will fuck her.
She looked at me like she couldn’t believe she’d cross the line, but she wouldn’t know how far I’d leaped over it.
She wouldn’t know that while she unraveled in my arms, I was thinking of how many condoms I had stashed away in my wallet, or how many ways I planned to fuck her.
She wouldn’t know.
I tell myself I’ll forget the taste of her by morning, but I already know that’s a goddamn lie.
I didn’t sleep a wink.
At sunrise, I decide to get up. I can’t lie around my office thinking anymore.
Thinking about her—Isla, upstairs in my bed, naked.
I kept wondering if she slept naked like she usually does or if she kept her clothes on because she knows I’m here.
Or maybe she really did take them off, hoping I’d come to bed and finish what we started in here.
Fucking fuck, listen to me.
I sound like my mind is fucked. I scrub a hand over my face.
I need to get my head straight. I need to pull my head out of my ass and get my act together.
Last night was last night and changes nothing.
There’s more at stake here than my sanity or a hard-on that won’t quit.
This marriage is a deal. Isla Monroe is just a wild card I can’t afford to let win.
The game’s not over. I just need to remember the rules. My rules of control. Always control.
With that in mind, I get dressed. I’ll grab some coffee from the kitchen then head to Vale Global. It’s early but not that much earlier than the time I usually leave.
I make my way down the hallway, thinking of everything I need to get done before the end of the week. With the wedding approaching so fast, I want to get as much work done as possible.
The house feels different in the morning light. Less like a battlefield and more like the sanctuary it's supposed to be.
The scent of the salty sea and the fresh coffee Sheila always has brewing fills the air.
Sunlight spills across the floors in streams of gold, creating that sense of peace I like before I start my day.
But that illusion shatters the moment I reach the atrium.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the garden, I see her.
Isla sits on a fold-out chair beneath the old oak tree, completely absorbed in her work. An easel is set up in front of her, and she's painting with the kind of focused intensity that makes the rest of the world disappear.
The sight of her stops me cold, and at the same time, all the blood in my body seems to rush to my cock.
I think of last night, but watching her in her element also grips me.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun that holds a few pencils, stuck there like a pin cushion. A paint-stained apron covers what looks like an old college sweatshirt and a pair of shorts.
My gaze roams over those golden legs I almost had wrapped around me, then I look back at her painting.
Isla looks like she’s on one hell of a mission, so focused, so determined, so lost in her creative vision.
She’s working on that piece again. The dark gothic-looking one from her apartment.
It never occurred to me that she might actually be working toward something, but it’s clear now. I remember when she was talking about paying me back with the theoretical money she thought she may have. Maybe it was going to come from this.
Is she planning to sell her artwork?
Or get a new job?
That would make sense. Even I have to admit that she’s incredibly talented.
Despite our differences, I hope she does sell her art or get a new job—though I told her she didn’t have to work. I know she will, though. People like her have their pride, but it’s not entirely about that with her.
Her art seems to be her world, and when you’re doing something you love, you never work a day in your life. It becomes living.
My reasoning sounds like I’m speaking from experience, but I’m not. And maybe that’s why I admire her.
Football was the closest I ever got to being someone other than a Vale. I try not to think about those days too much because it feels like I lived on borrowed time.
I was an amazing linebacker, but I was born and bred to lead the Vale empire. And I accepted that. I chose it.
But sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I’d chosen a different path. Something that wasn’t already chosen for me.
Just like the artist in my garden.
She found her path in life. Her purpose. Her dream. And every brushstroke tells me she’s fighting to hold on to it.
Isla pauses and steps back to assess her work, tilting her head in that way that's becoming familiar to me.
There's something almost meditative about watching her. Something that draws me closer to the window despite myself. Almost like I want to see inside her head to know what she’s thinking.
I could go ask her. I could open the door, go outside, and walk right up to her and ask her.
Or I could do something entirely different. Like kiss her the way I did last night. Or more.
But I won’t.
The moment the thought hits me, Isla’s back goes ramrod straight and she looks over her shoulder, right at me.
The shock of seeing me standing here turns her dewy skin pale. With her brush in hand, she faces me, those full, kissable lips parted and her eyes wide.
She stares back at me, too.
For a heartbeat, the world tilts, quiet and fragile, and all I can think about is how she felt in my arms. The memory hits like a tidal wave I can’t outrun, tearing through every ounce of control I have.
That’s the problem. Everything’s been upside down and spiraling out of my reach since Isla Monroe walked into my world. Or rather, since I upheaved hers.
As I look at her, I see now why Chad came back and wanted a second chance. But he was a fool to let her go in the first place.
Maybe I’m a fool, too. Because I clearly want her.
And that’s the part that scares me the most.
I wasn’t built for real connection.
I’ve spent my whole life learning that wanting someone only ends one way—my mother weaponized affection, my father treated loyalty like currency. I grew up believing connection was just another form of leverage and feelings were liabilities, weaknesses to cut out before they spread.
But Isla… she makes me feel something that doesn’t follow any of those rules.
She’s the only woman I’ve ever met who didn’t want me because I’m Knox Vale.
And she’s the one woman I’m supposed to keep at arm’s length … yet can’t seem to let go of.
I can’t fuck her.
Wanting her isn’t the issue. I already do.
The problem is what happens after.
If I touched her again…
I’d want more. And more.
I wouldn’t stop.
I wouldn’t know how.
There’d be no end to what I would take.
So, I’ll stick to the plan. To the contract.
And I’ll remain the monster who collects beautiful things and stores them on a shelf.
Look but don’t touch.
Look. But do not touch.