Chapter 7 - Isabella
After having wine for the first time in months last night, my head throbs when I wake up. I drag myself out of bed and head straight to the kitchen, desperate to shake off the haze. It’s late in the afternoon, and thankfully, the kitchen is empty. The last thing I want is small talk. I pour myself a large cup of freshly brewed coffee and grab a chocolate croissant. If there’s one thing I’ll miss about being here, it’s the food.
As I enter my room, sipping on my coffee, the light streams through the curtains—golden and soft, but muted, hesitant to touch me. My room is a mess, an overwhelming sea of abandoned canvases scattered across the floor. Paintings I’ve started and hated, ideas I’ve chased but couldn’t catch. But today is different. Today, work is the only thing that will push the thoughts of Hugo away.
I woke up with a sudden burst of inspiration, sharp and vivid—one of those moments that feels too fleeting to hold onto. It’s been weeks since I’ve felt this way. The subject? A rose on a river—Dominic’s reference photo from the day I arrived. The image is etched in my mind, as vivid as if the photo were right in front of me. A delicate rose floating on dark water, its petals half-drenched but vibrant, fragile yet refusing to sink.
I grab the largest blank canvas in the room and prop it against the easel. My paints are already out, an array of deep blues, grays, and blacks that match the storm inside me. The moment I set the brush to the canvas, I lose myself. The river takes shape first—dark streaks of shadow and motion that ripple across the surface. My hand moves almost on its own, guided by a passion I can’t name. The rose comes next, its petals soft and trembling under the pressure of the water. I try to capture its struggle, its defiance.
I lose track of time as the hours slip by. Eventually, the sun dips below the horizon, and the golden light gives way to the silvery glow of the moon. I don’t bother turning on the light, though by now, I have to squint to make out the image. I know if I stand, the ache in my legs and the protest of my back will make it hard to continue, so I don’t stop. The passing hours go unnoticed until I finally step back and take in the painting as a whole.
It’s finished.
The river is dark, rushing, alive with energy. The rose floats on its surface, delicate but unyielding. Its edges blur where the water laps against its petals, but it doesn’t drown. There’s an unfiltered charm to it that feels real in a way my other attempts haven’t.
I hope Dominic likes it. The memory of his expression when he showed me that photo, the mention of his mother being an artist and the way his eyes lingered on the image as if it carried an emotion too heavy to voice stirs sympathy in me. It was more than just a random picture to him. I know that much.
The room smells of turpentine and oil, reminding me of my apartment. I miss being home, surrounded by familiar things, instead of here, where even my own reflection feels foreign. It’s strange how my life has shifted in just a month. Suddenly, my stomach grumbles, saving me from an existential crisis and reminding me I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I glance at the clock—past nine. I’ve been at this for hours, completely lost in the work.
The satisfaction from the painting still buzzes faintly in my chest, but now it’s accompanied by an uncomfortable feeling of dread.
Because this painting means I’m one step closer to leaving—unless it’s just the first step in repaying my debt, thanks to Demitri.
That was the plan from the beginning: finish the painting, pack my things, and get out. But now that the end is in sight, the thought of leaving isn’t as easy.
Not with Dominic.
I rub my temples, trying to push the thoughts away. He’s just a man. A complicated, infuriating man who somehow gets under my skin more than anyone else ever has. And yet…
I force myself to look at the painting again, hoping it will ground me. Instead, it only stirs the turmoil in my chest. The rose looks so fragile, so exposed. It doesn’t make sense for it to survive the river, but it does.
The soft knock at my door startles me, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. My heart jumps, and I consider ignoring it. But the knock comes again, more insistent this time. I cross the room, pulling the door open just a crack.
Dominic stands on the other side, his broad frame filling the doorway. His dark eyes flick to mine, then over my shoulder, taking in the chaotic room behind me.
“You’ve been busy,” he says, his voice low.
“What do you want?”
His gaze sharpens. Is that hesitation I sense? Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he says, “You missed dinner.”
“I was working,” I reply, keeping my voice even. Surprised that he would notice something that insignificant. Fate is certainly not on my side because my stomach decides to growl at the mention of dinner, earning a raised eyebrow from Dominic. Suddenly I’m grateful the room isn’t lit because I’m certain I’m flushed.
Thankfully, his eyes move past me again, landing on the painting. His expression shifts subtly, his usual mask slipping just enough for me to catch a hint of eagerness.
“Is that it?” he asks, nodding toward the canvas.
My stomach twists. “Yes.”
He steps forward, and I instinctively move aside, letting him into the room. He walks toward the painting, his movements slow, meticulous.
For a long moment, he just looks at it.
I cross my arms, watching him carefully. “Well? What do you think?”
His head tilts slightly, his hands sliding into his pockets. “It’s… striking.”
I scoff, though the hint of warmth in his voice sends an uninvited flutter through me. “That’s not exactly helpful feedback.”
He turns to face me, his expression softer than usual. “It’s more than I expected.”
There’s a softness in his tone—quiet, almost reverent—that makes my chest tighten. I don’t know how to respond, so I settle for a shrug. “I’m glad you like it.”
Dominic steps closer, his gaze lingering on me now instead of the painting. It is almost unbearable, and I feel the urge to say something.
“I’ll varnish in the morning,” I say quickly, turning away to tidy the brushes scattered on the table. “Then I can—”
“You’ve captured it perfectly,” he interrupts, his voice softer now.
I glance at him, caught off guard. His eyes are on the painting again, but there’s something raw in his expression, like the layers he usually hides behind have been peeled back just enough to show a glimpse of what’s underneath.
I swallow hard, my hands tightening around the brushes. “It’s just a painting.”
“No,” he says quietly, his eyes meeting mine. “It’s not. It means a lot more than that.”
“Are you going to tell me what it means… or just keep me in suspense?” I squint my eyes at him. My tone is playful because I don’t really expect an answer.
“It’s a means to get back at my enemy. This painting only matters to me because it holds significance for them,” he answers, to my surprise.
I’m sure what I’m thinking is written on my face because he asks, “What? Spit it out.”
I give him a small smile. “It’s just that you have too many enemies... from what I’ve heard. Wouldn’t it be better to let go of some of it? Your anger. I mean, I don’t know you that well, but everyone knows about your family’s tragedy, and my brother told me...”
“What your brother or anyone else has to say doesn’t have anything to do with me,” he interrupts, his tone sharp. I realize I’ve crossed a line. Why did I think I could have a normal conversation with this man? There’s no way he has any empathy in him, but yesterday’s incident has blurred my perception of him. I know there’s still some human part of him in there.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” I whisper.
The words hang between us, heavy and unspoken, filling the room.
I turn around and take off the apron dappled with streaks of paint; the soft rustle makes more noise than I expected. The hush of the room amplifies everything—the faint creak of the wooden floor beneath my feet, the distant whisper of the house settling. When I turn back, I’m surprised to find Dominic’s eyes on me, following the motion of the apron as it slips from my fingers and lands in a crumpled heap on the floor. I had expected him to leave by now.
His gaze lingers before rising to meet mine, and it’s like a spark jumps between us. My breath catches. His eyes are dark, unyielding, and there’s an intensity to them that makes my skin prickle, as if he’s looking at more than just me—like he’s stripping away the layers I’ve worked so hard to protect.
I tug at the hem of my dress, suddenly hyper-aware of how wrinkled and casual it looks compared to his perfectly tailored suit. The pale pink fabric clings in places where I’ve sweated through the day, and faint streaks of blue and black paint stain the edges. I feel unpolished and out of place, a mess standing before someone who looks like he just stepped off the cover of a magazine.
“Long day?” Dominic asks, his voice smooth, low, and impossibly steady.
I nod, my throat dry. “Yes.”
He takes a step closer, his movements measured. There’s a subtle shift in the mood as he closes the distance between us. My heart begins to race, pounding so loudly I wonder if he can hear it.
“It shows,” he says, his gaze flicking briefly to my wrist where a streak of blue paint runs like a scar.
I try to laugh, brushing at the paint in a futile attempt to hide my nerves. “The price of inspiration.”
His lips quirk into a faint smile, but there’s no humor in it. If anything, it makes him seem sharper, more dangerous. The scent of his cologne drifts toward me—cedarwood mixed with smoke and leather. It’s intoxicating, and I have to force myself not to lean in, not to let it overwhelm me.
“You’ve been working hard,” he says, his voice dipping lower, almost a murmur. “But you missed dinner.”
“I wasn’t hungry.” The excuse falls flat between us, and his eyes narrow, catching the lie.
Dominic tilts his head slightly, his expression softening in a way that feels almost... caring. “You should take better care of yourself, Isabella.”
The way he says my name makes a deep shudder roll through me. His tone isn’t just casual concern—it’s deeper, and it latches onto me in a way I can’t ignore.
I look away, pretending to fuss with the edge of my dress, but he steps closer, his presence commanding enough to pull my gaze back to his.
“Why do you care?” My voice comes out barely above a whisper.
“I wish I knew,” he replies. Lifting his hand, he murmurs, “You’ve got paint here.”
Before I can react, his thumb brushes against my cheek, just below my eye. His touch is warm, his fingers rough against my skin, and the simple act feels intimate in a way that makes my stomach tighten. My breath hitches as he pulls his hand back, showing me the faint smear of black paint on his thumb.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He doesn’t reply, but his eyes don’t leave mine. My pulse pounds in my ears, my chest tightening under the pressure of his existence.
I take a step back, needing space to think, but my legs bump against the chair behind me. I’m trapped, and he knows it. He steps forward, closing the gap until there’s almost no space between us.
“Why do you keep running?” he asks softly.
“I’m not—”
“You are.” His voice is firm, cutting off my denial. “Every time I get close, you pull away. Why?”
I don’t know how to answer. My thoughts are a tangled mess, and the words stick in my throat.
“I don’t…” I swallow hard. “I don’t trust myself.”
His gaze softens, but the intensity doesn’t fade. “You can trust me.”
Can I? The question burns in my mind, but before I can answer, he lifts his hand, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger there, brushing lightly against the sensitive skin of my neck. The warmth of his touch sends a shudder through me.
I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly his lips are on mine, and the world tilts.
The kiss starts slow, tentative, as if he’s giving me the chance to pull away. But I don’t. Instead, I lean into him, my hands finding their way to his chest. His heart beats steadily beneath my palm, a sharp contrast to the chaos in mine.
It’s been two years since I’ve felt this—since Sebastian left for Italy and took every ounce of warmth with him. Two years without being kissed, without the touch of someone else—of a man. And now, it feels like I’m waking up from a long, numbing winter, my body craving the heat, the connection, the intimacy I’ve denied myself for so long.
Dominic’s hand slides to the small of my back, pulling me closer, and I gasp against his mouth as his other hand tangles in my hair.
Fire ignites in my veins, spreading through me like a fever. His lips are firm, commanding, and the way they move against mine leaves me breathless.
I clutch at his suit jacket, my fingers curling into the fabric as if I need something to hold onto. The heat between us is overwhelming, consuming, and I feel like I’m drowning in it.
His hand lowers to graze my thigh, just below the hem of my dress, sending a tremble through me. The sensation is enough to make my knees weak, but he holds me steady, his strength a lifeline I didn’t know I needed.
I pull back, just enough to catch my breath, and our eyes meet. His are dark, filled with a hunger that matches my own.
“Isabella,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost pleading.
I don’t let him finish. Instead, I press my lips to his again, silencing whatever words he was about to say. This time, the kiss is more urgent, more desperate. I’m not thinking anymore—I’m feeling, drowning in the heat of him and the way he makes me forget everything else.
His hand moves under the fabric of my dress, his fingers brushing against my bare skin, and I can’t suppress the soft moan that escapes my lips. The sound seems to spur him on, his grip tightening as he pulls me even closer. Our bodies are pressed together, and I can feel the warmth of his skin even through the layers of our clothes, the heat of his body radiating against me, making it hard to focus on anything but the intense pull between us. His fingers slide up my thigh, tracing the curve of my hip before they settle, firmly grabbing my hips. Instinctively, my legs wrap around his waist as he lifts me effortlessly. I feel the solid pressure of his hands, holding me steady, making me feel like I’m drowning in him. Every nerve in my body responds, my breath hitching as his hold deepens, locking me even closer against him.
But just as the fire threatens to consume us completely, Dominic pulls back, gently lowering me to the ground, his breath heavy. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel the strain in his body—the inner war he’s fighting with himself.
“We should stop,” he says, though his voice lacks conviction.
“Why?” The word slips out before I can stop it, and I hate how vulnerable it sounds.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see his raw and unguarded face. “Because if we don’t, I won’t be able to.”
The honesty in his words hits me like a punch to the chest, and I realize with startling clarity that I’m already past the point of no return.
For minutes, we don’t move, caught in the pull of a hunger neither of us can control. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to let go. A moment later, Dominic presses a kiss to my forehead, his hands gripping my arms, reluctant to let go.
“Goodnight, Isabella,” he whispers against my skin before walking away, leaving me standing alone.