35. Chapter 35
Chapter 35
T his wasn’t his fucking world.
Dim lighting, sculptural shit everywhere, people who smelled like money and thought whispers passed for conversation. Isaac leaned against a concrete pillar near the back of the main room, nursing a whiskey that tasted like expensive cologne. His ribs still ached, tight under his suit jacket, but not as tight as his jaw.
Across the room, Rosie glowed.
Lit from the inside. Spun gold and candlelight, black silk hugging her curves like it was born there. Her dark hair curled soft over her shoulders, red lips curving politely as she fielded questions from art critics, gallery owners, maybe even a buyer or two.
She was trying to play it cool, but he knew her. Knew her breath pattern. The tilt of her shoulders. That half-second pause before she answered. She was overwhelmed—but goddamn, she was holding her own.
And she looked fucking unbelievable doing it.
Isaac took a long pull from his glass, heat in his chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. He should’ve been proud. He was proud. But pride twisted with something darker, meaner. He was watching her be admired, consumed, picked apart with careful eyes. Every man who stepped into her orbit got cataloged in his head. Tall guy in glasses? Too close. Curator with the skinny tie? Too handsy. Young art dealer with the fucking smirk? Definitely said something out of pocket.
Every time someone leaned in, Isaac’s fists itched.
He hadn’t said much since they got here. Too much energy going into not going full recon mode on this room. Too much control burned into his jaw, his stance. The instincts in him were loud tonight—too loud. Protect. Secure. Eliminate threats.
And then—
Greg Taylor.
Custom suit. Polished shoes. Handsome in that rich-man way that meant nothing but power. He approached Rosie with the confidence of a man who knew he was welcome. Isaac saw it happen like a sniper spotting movement downrange.
Greg laid a hand on her shoulder.
Talked close.
Too close.
Isaac’s grip tightened around his glass.
That was the moment something shifted in his chest. That look on Greg’s face—warm, familiar, pleased. Like he’d discovered something. Like he owned something. Isaac’s vision sharpened, narrowed.
He saw Rosie tilt her head up to listen.
Saw Greg lean in—say something only she could hear.
Isaac couldn’t hear the words.
Didn’t need to.
It looked too fucking familiar. Too much like a memory he couldn’t unsee.
Predators smiled like that. When they thought no one was looking.
Isaac’s gut turned to concrete. The sound in the room faded. His pulse started to climb.
He wasn’t jealous.
He was ready to burn this place to the goddamn ground.
She was his now.
And nobody, not even a billionaire in a tailored fucking tux, got to forget that.
* * * * *
Isaac leaned against a cold steel pillar near the back of the reception hall, one boot crossed over the other, whiskey glass sweating in his hand. He hadn’t moved in half an hour. Just stood there, jaw clenched, tracking Rosie through the crowd like a sniper with a scope.
There were only two goddamn thoughts going through his head. First of all, she looked fucking radiant. All curves and confidence in that black slip of a dress, laughing a little too politely, that gallery smile on her face that he could tell was cracking under pressure.
And secondly, standing too close, right fucking beside her—Greg Taylor. Motherfucker.
Isaac’s grip tightened on the glass. Hate spread like a poison inside him. He watched as Greg put a hand on the small of Rosie’s back, leaned in close to whisper something. Rosie gave a stiff laugh, eyes darting sideways. Isaac saw the way her posture changed, shoulders inching up, like she was trying to make herself smaller.
Not liking this.
Not one goddamn bit.
Greg wasn’t touching her inappropriately—not technically. He wasn’t saying anything Isaac could hear. But it was the vibe. The body language. The subtle lean-ins, the guiding hand on her waist, the way he kept stepping in her space, talking close, leading her from one wealthy fuck to another like he owned her.
Like she was his newest acquisition.
Isaac’s stomach churned.
He’d seen this before. Not here, not like this—but it was the same fucking thing.
Twelve years old. Standing on Rosie’s porch after school. Seeing fucking Troy answer the door shirtless, beer in hand, looking like he’d just rolled off the floor. That smile he gave when he called her princess. The way his hand lingered on her shoulder when he told Isaac to get going now, she had chores.
Isaac hadn’t known what it meant back then.
Now he did.
Now he fucking knew.
And this shit—Greg’s hand on her hip, his too-smooth praise, the way he steered her through the room—this was triggering every violent instinct Isaac had. His ribs ached. His vision tunneled.
He wanted to rip the guy’s head off.
“Bitch, you’re vibrating,” Shay’s voice cut in.
Isaac turned slightly as his teammate and Chris approached, both of them in suits, looking uncomfortable as hell. Chris had already unbuttoned his collar and ditched his tie.
“You gonna detonate or what?” Shay asked, glancing at Rosie. “She looks good. Real good.”
“Too fucking good,” Isaac muttered, still staring.
Chris followed his gaze, saw Greg, and whistled low. “Oh. The billionaire. That’s the guy?”
“Yeah.”
“Looks like money,” Chris said, raising his eyebrows. “Shit, maybe he’s her type now.”
Isaac didn’t answer.
Because if he opened his mouth, he might throw the whiskey glass.
Amy appeared next to them, wearing a sharp navy jumpsuit, heels clicking on the tile. She’d been working the floor too, schmoozing press and collectors on Rosie’s behalf. She clocked Isaac’s face instantly.
“Don’t,” she warned, stepping in his path as he started to shift forward.
“I’m not—”
“You are. I see that look,” Amy said. “That’s the murder look. Dial it back. This is a business event.”
“He’s touching her.”
“He’s her sponsor,” Amy snapped, eyes flashing. “He’s introducing her to collectors who could change her life.”
Isaac shook his head, heat crawling up the back of his neck. “It’s too much.”
Amy crossed her arms. “You don’t get to pull her off the dance floor because you don’t like the song. She’s not a kid anymore. She’s a professional. Let her handle herself.”
“She shouldn’t have to,” he growled.
Chris stepped between them. “Yo. Isaac. Chill. You’re not seeing straight right now. Just—breathe.”
Shay added quietly, “You’re spiraling, man. This isn’t like you.”
Isaac’s jaw ticked. His knuckles ached from clenching the glass too hard. Instead, he lifted it to his mouth again.
“Dude, what happened to your hands?” Shay asked.
Isaac didn’t answer. Not yet. He looked past them. Back to Rosie. Her laugh was quieter now. She was nodding at Greg’s latest introduction, her smile twitching at the edges. That wasn’t happiness. That was surviving.
Something inside Isaac cracked.
“I should’ve protected her back then,” he muttered.
“What?” Chris frowned.
Isaac’s voice was low. Dangerous. “I should’ve known. When we were kids. I saw the bruises. I knew something was wrong. But I didn’t ask. I didn’t push. I didn’t fucking protect her.”
Amy paled. Shay blinked. Chris’s face shifted, the joke gone from his eyes.
“Rayleigh,” Chris said carefully. “What happened?”
Isaac stared down the length of the room, his voice flat.
“Her stepdad. I saw him yesterday. He found her. Followed her. I confronted him in the alley behind that East LA center. He told me what he did. To her. To her mom. And I lost it. I fucking—”
He stopped. His breath shuddered.
Chris’s face drained of color.
“I thought I killed him,” Isaac said. “I didn’t. But I should’ve.”
No one spoke.
The weight of it sank like concrete between them.
Amy reached out, her voice softer. “Does Rosie know?”
Isaac shook his head. “Not everything. Not yet. How the fuck am I supposed to tell her?”
And across the room—Greg was leading Rosie toward a side corridor.
Isaac’s chest constricted.
He didn’t like it.
He didn’t fucking like it.
He set his whiskey down on some high-top table and started moving.
“Isaac,” Amy called from behind him, heels clacking fast as she followed. “Isaac. Don’t.”
Shay and Chris were close behind her. “What the hell’s going on?” Shay asked. “Where’s he going?”
Chris clocked Isaac’s posture—his shoulders, the angle of his neck—and swore under his breath. “Shit. He’s gonna start a scene.”
“I’m not starting anything,” Isaac snapped, not looking back. “I’m ending it.”
“Isaac,” Amy said again, panting now, trying to keep up. “It’s a business conversation. That’s it. Greg’s the money. He’s brought collectors tonight. You can’t—”
But Isaac wasn’t listening.
Because Greg was already guiding Rosie down a side hall off the main gallery. Away from the noise. The lights. The people.
Private.
Closed.
The kind of move Isaac had seen a hundred times before.
And this time, his vision went red.
Rosie didn’t look uncomfortable—but that didn’t mean shit. She was the kind of woman who’d smile with a knife in her gut just to make sure nobody else felt awkward.
He followed, footsteps pounding heavier, faster.
Amy hissed, “Isaac, for God’s sake—”
But he was already turning the corner.
The lighting shifted. Quieter back here. The noise of the crowd dimmed to a murmur.
And there they were.
Greg and Rosie.
His hand was still on her back.
Rosie was mid-sentence, turning to glance at something on the wall.
Isaac didn’t wait.
“Step the fuck away from her.” His voice was low. Sharp.
Both of them froze.
Greg’s hand dropped. Slowly. Deliberately.
Rosie turned fully, eyes wide. “Isaac—”
He stepped forward, closing the distance in three strides, blood pounding hard in his ears.
He didn’t care who was watching. Didn’t care about Amy or Shay or Chris whisper-shouting behind him.
He was done watching from the edges.
Done letting anyone else get close.
Greg straightened, expression shifting into something cold and composed. “Excuse me?”
“I said,” Isaac growled, voice dropping to lethal, “get your fucking hands off her.”
* * * * *
The second Greg’s hand left the small of her back, the air changed.
No—it cracked.
Rosie barely had time to register the shift before she heard it:
“Step the fuck away from her.”
It wasn’t loud.
It was lethal.
Her breath caught. She turned—and there he was.
Isaac.
Storming toward them like a loaded weapon, eyes sharp as knives, mouth drawn into a line so hard it might’ve been carved from stone. His shoulders were set like he was walking into a fight. His fists were clenched.
“Isaac,” she said, stunned. “What are you—?”
Too late.
Greg instinctively stepped back, both hands up like he knew better than to posture. “Hey. Hey—whatever this is—”
Isaac’s voice broke. “Whatever this is?”
He stalked forward, rage radiating off him. “You led her into a closed hallway. Away from the crowd. What the fuck were you thinking?”
Greg kept his tone calm. “She looked overwhelmed. I thought she could use a breather. That’s it.”
Rosie stepped between them, palm flat on Isaac’s chest—feeling his heart hammering beneath her fingers like it might crack his ribs from the inside out.
“Isaac,” she said gently. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t.
He was shaking.
Not with rage.
With something worse. Something buried.
That’s when footsteps slammed the marble behind them. She turned to see Chris, Shay, and Amy rushing in.
“Isaac, don’t—” Amy’s voice was tight, her heels snapping.
Shay reached for Isaac’s arm. “Bro. You gotta calm down. This isn’t you.”
Isaac didn’t even blink. He just kept staring at Greg like he was seconds from tearing his throat out.
Chris—of all people—was the one who broke the spell.
“He’s not okay,” he said.
Rosie turned. “What?”
Chris’s voice was low, controlled. “He fought your dad. Yesterday.”
Time stopped.
“What?” Rosie whispered.
Isaac didn’t speak. His jaw clenched, the tendon in his neck twitching. His hands dropped to his sides, fingers curling like he needed to hit something just to stay upright.
“He was outside the youth center,” Chris said. “Casing the place. Isaac spotted him.”
“He’s out?” Rosie breathed, blood draining from her face. “He’s—Troy—he’s out of prison?”
Isaac’s voice was gravel when he spoke. “He’s not your father.”
She turned to him. “What?”
His eyes met hers. Raw. Fractured. “He’s not your father, Rosie. He never was.”
Her stomach flipped.
“I followed him yesterday,” Isaac said, hoarse. “I didn’t know who he was at first. Just some strung-out guy watching the building. Then he looked at me. Smirked. And I knew. I remembered.”
Her whole body went cold.
“Troy. That sick fuck. The guy who used to answer the door like you were grounded when I came by. Who used to stare at me too long when you weren’t looking. Who smiled at you like he owned you.”
She didn’t realize she was shaking until Isaac reached for her hand.
“I didn’t know what he was doing to you,” he said, voice cracking. “I was twelve, Rosie. I didn’t understand. But you came to school with bruises and I still didn’t ask.”
Tears blurred her vision.
“I thought I was protecting you. I thought just being there was enough. But it wasn’t. I failed you.”
“No,” she whispered. But he wasn’t listening.
“I should’ve seen it. I should’ve fucking seen it.” His hands trembled, his whole body vibrating like he was holding in a scream. “You were a goddamn child and I let him keep hurting you.”
He took a step back. Then another. Like he couldn’t bear to be near her. Like her forgiveness would burn him alive.
Rosie moved to him. “Isaac—”
“I can’t live with it,” he rasped. “I can’t sleep. I dream about it now. You. Him. That night. Every night since yesterday, I see it all. I see you.”
She reached for him.
He finally looked at her.
And God, he was ruined.
Not by the punch he hadn’t thrown tonight.
But by the one he didn’t throw twenty years ago.
The one he should’ve thrown when he was just a boy.
Rosie stepped closer and laid her hand over his heart.
It was thunderous beneath her palm.
And then his arms came around her like gravity. Like need. Like he’d been holding himself upright by force alone, and she was the only thing strong enough to take the weight.
She held him tightly, her hand pressed to the back of his neck, her cheek against his chest. Felt the thud of his heart. The tension in his spine. The grief in his silence.
Chris, Shay, and Amy hovered nearby. But the room had narrowed. It was just him and her. Their whole lives compressed into this moment.
He exhaled shakily. “I never let myself fall in love.”
Rosie froze.
He didn’t pull away.
“Not with anyone,” Isaac said. “Not once. All these years. Not a single woman.”
She pulled back just enough to see his face. “Why?”
His throat worked. His jaw clenched. “Because I already was.”
Her breath hitched.
Isaac’s voice was barely a whisper. “With you.”
Tears blurred her vision.
“I didn’t know how to feel it,” he said, eyes dark and raw. “Not when every time I looked at you, I remembered what I didn’t do. What I didn’t stop. And it was easier to pretend it wasn’t there than admit I was in love with someone I’d already failed.”
Her whole chest squeezed.
“I thought I didn’t deserve it,” he said, hoarse. “I thought… if I let myself have that, it would mean what happened to you didn’t matter.”
Rosie shook her head, tears sliding down her cheeks now.
“You didn’t fail me,” she whispered.
Isaac didn’t speak.
He just held her tighter.
And for the first time since they were kids, Rosie felt it—that impossible, unspoken bond between them shift. No longer shaped by guilt. Or trauma. Or what-ifs.
But by truth.
By the impossible, aching fact that he’d loved her all along. From the beginning.
Even when he couldn’t say it.
Even when it hurt too much to try.
And now—he was here.
Holding her like he’d never let go.
Chris’s voice cut the silence. “Guys, let’s call it. It’s late. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Agreed,” Amy muttered, slipping off her heels.
Greg reappeared a second later, phone to his ear. “Security’s opening the side entrance. It’ll be faster.”
They moved together—Rosie and Isaac in front, Chris and Amy bickering behind them, Shay trailing like a shadow.
The corridor to the side exit was dimmer, the overhead lights humming faintly. The walls had that cool industrial chill, the air touched with the salt of the Pacific. Somewhere beyond the doors, the sound of gulls cut through the hum of the city.
Rosie leaned against Isaac, her body sore in that good, high-adrenaline way. She was tired—deeply—but still humming with the unreality of it all. Red carpet. Flashes. Her name on a placard beside her work.
She turned her face toward him. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice thick with everything she didn’t know how to say yet. “For coming. For… this.”
Isaac looked down at her, the corners of his mouth softening just slightly. His thumb grazed over her knuckles. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
And then Greg stepped closer.
Rosie tensed instinctively, but the energy had shifted—less fire, more truce.
Greg’s voice was low, steady. “Mate, apologies.”
He held out a hand.
Rosie’s heart caught, watching Isaac hesitate for a single breath.
Then—he took it.
The handshake was firm. Measured. No false smiles, but no resistance either.
Greg nodded once. “Rosalie’s a remarkable artist. I’m proud to be part of this next chapter for her.”
Isaac’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t bristle. His voice was quiet, and maybe just a little hoarse. “She deserves it. And more.”
His arm tightened around Rosie, pulling her a touch closer. Protective. Unyielding. Like whatever came next, he’d stand between it and her.
She felt the beat of his heart against her shoulder.
For the first time all night, she thought maybe—just maybe—they were going to make it out of this event in one piece.
The security guard opened the door ahead. Just a crack of outside noise came in—seagulls, cars, faint shouts down the block.
Rosie stepped through first.
She didn’t see it at first—not until Isaac’s entire body went rigid beside her.
He shoved her behind him so fast she stumbled, her back hitting the cool concrete wall.
“What—” she started.
“Get back inside,” Isaac said low, his voice different now. Not angry. Not frustrated. Commanding.
Rosie blinked. And then she saw what he did.
A man was shouting across the alley. Disheveled. Feral.
Grey hair. Gaunt face. Bony shoulders beneath a too-big jacket.
Rosie’s blood ran cold.
It was like her lungs seized.
Troy.
She didn’t know how—how he found them, how he got here—but it was him. And in his hand—
Oh god.
“Gun,” Isaac snapped.
He shoved her farther behind him, his own body shifting like a machine—fluid, ruthless, automatic. She didn’t even know what to do. Didn’t even know how fast he moved.
Everything exploded.
Shouts.
Screams.
The gun raised.
And Isaac was already moving. A blur of black suit and sharp instinct.
“No—” Rosie screamed, reaching for him.
But he was gone. Charging.
The shot cracked the air.
She flinched.
Chris grabbed her.
Shay shouted something.
And then—Isaac collided with Troy.
The gun fired two more times and then hit the concrete.
There was blood.
There was so much blood.
Rosie didn’t know whose it was.
She was screaming. She was crying. She was clawing out of Chris’s grip and racing toward the wreck of bodies on the ground.
Isaac.
He was on top of Troy, knee in the man’s chest. Both of them were soaked in red. Troy wasn’t breathing anymore—eyes closed, body still. Dead.
Isaac looked up at her. Just once.
“Rosie.”
Her knees gave out.
He caught her before she hit the ground.
“I told you,” he whispered, his breath ragged, his voice wrecked. “I wasn’t gonna let anyone hurt you again.”
And in that moment, through all the horror, the chaos, the blood—
She knew.
He’d always loved her.
And this time, he’d saved her.