3. Damian
CHAPTER 3
DAMIAN
I watch her walk away.
I should look elsewhere, pretend I don’t notice the sway of her hips, the way her fingers curl around the edge of her clutch like it’s the only thing tethering her to the floor.
But I can’t. I can’t even breathe right.
What the hell just happened?
She was supposed to be a memory. A lesson. A scar I could trace in private but never have to see again. I made peace with her absence. Forced peace, yes, buried under late nights and buyouts and boardrooms. My life doesn’t have space for her anymore.
And yet she walked in like the missing breath in a sentence I’ve been trying to finish for years.
I knew coming here was a risk but damn…
I sit down on the nearest bench like someone just knocked the wind out of me.
She still looks the same. No. Better. She’s softer around the edges but sharper too. Confident. Untouchable. She’s built her world, and it shines. She doesn’t need me.
God, why does that hurt?
I ran the numbers on heartbreak a long time ago. It was a calculated cost. I chose the business. Chose the empire. Chose the version of myself that wouldn’t bleed when someone walked away.
Except she didn’t just walk.
She wrecked me.
And now she’s back, standing not that far away, with her steady eyes and her carefully neutral tone, and it feels like my entire foundation just cracked down the middle.
When she asked why are you really here, I wanted to tell her the truth.
I don’t know anymore.
I ran from feelings like this. I buried them under ironclad contracts and a ruthless schedule and a cold, steel reputation. But one look at her—just one—and I’m twenty steps behind, fighting the part of me that still remembers how her skin felt under my fingers, how her laugh used to echo inside my chest.
I stand, adjusting my cuffs, trying to breathe through the shake I won’t let show.
This isn’t a problem I can outmaneuver or negotiate into submission.
This is Isabelle, and for the first time in years, I don’t know how to win.
I was here to network, but that doesn’t have to be done in person.
I’m not a coward, but I’ll admit to myself and no one else that I tuck my tail between my legs and leave.
But not until after I glance at her one last time.
* * *
The next day, I’m at my office, like always when my phone buzzes.
I don’t expect her text.
Not from Isabelle.
Not after how she walked away, all composed, beautiful, and devastating. Like she’d mastered the art of surviving me.
But it comes anyway.
I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop thinking about yesterday.
I stare at the screen longer than I should, rereading the message like it might rewrite itself if I blink. It doesn’t.
I text back and one text leads to another, and ten minutes later, I’m across the city.
Tucked between a flower shop bursting with color and a quiet old-world tailor, Hearth & Honey almost looks like something out of a fairy tale. Its exterior is a soft sage green with white-trimmed windows, ivy curling around the hand-painted sign that hangs above the door. The sign itself is aged wood, carved with delicate lettering and a small, etched bee tucked into the corner. The front windows are slightly fogged with condensation from the warmth inside, and there’s a chalkboard easel near the entrance that reads, “Today’s Special: Lavender Honey Latte & Warm Apple Tart” in swooping cursive. A few mismatched bistro chairs and tables sit outside under a striped awning.
This isn’t my kind of place.
I know it the second I push open the door and hear the faint chime of a bell overhead, soft not urgent. Everything inside is warm, gentle, handmade in a way that feels deeply personal. I don’t do personal. Not anymore.
The air is thick with the scent of honey and orange peel, like someone bottled nostalgia and set it loose in here. The fireplace in the back crackles low, and a candle flickers on every table. Even the shadows feel soft.
It’s not me, but it’s her.
God, it’s so her.
Isabelle always found the magic in things like this—in chipped teacups and crooked paintings, in places that felt lived-in instead of designed. I used to tease her for dragging me into places like this. Now, I feel like I’m trespassing in a memory I wasn’t invited to relive.
My shoes echo too sharply against the wood. My suit feels too crisp, too cold for this kind of setting.
I scan the room and spot her instantly.
Sitting near the window. No makeup. Hair pulled back. Her hands wrapped around a coffee cup like it’s the only source of stability in the room. Suddenly I can’t remember how I ever managed to breathe without this view in front of me.
I walk toward her, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel powerful. I just feel like a man who’s about to sit down across from the woman he never stopped loving.
She looks up, and I sit without a word.
For a long time, neither of us says anything. The silence is heavy but not empty.
Finally, she exhales. “This was a bad idea.”
“Probably,” I admit, “but you texted me.”
“I know.” She stares into her coffee then looks up, meeting my eyes. “I keep trying to convince myself that I imagined it. That seeing you again didn’t shake me. That you’re just someone I used to know.”
I wait.
“But you’re not.” Her voice softens. “And that scares me.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “You think I haven’t been haunted by the same thing since the moment I saw you?”
“That’s the problem, Damian. You always say the right thing. You always sound sincere.”
I flinch.
She presses on, voice quieter now. “You shattered me once. Not all at once. Not with betrayal or cruelty. Just little by little. With your absence. With every missed dinner. Every cold excuse. With the way I stopped recognizing myself just to fit into your world.”
I swallow hard. There’s nothing to say in my defense. She’s not wrong.
“I’m not asking for anything,” she says quickly, as if reading the tension building in my shoulders. “I just needed you to know that I’m not unaffected. That this isn’t easy for me.”
I nod slowly. “I don’t want to hurt you again, Isabelle, but I can’t lie. Seeing you shook me too, and I don’t know what to do with that.”
Her eyes linger on mine for a moment longer than they should.
Then she stands, and my heart stutters. She’s going to walk away again.
But instead, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a folded piece of paper, an invitation to her next exhibit.
She sets it down in front of me. “If you want to know who I am now,” she says softly, “come see what I’ve made without you.”
Then she leaves, and I don’t move for a long, long time.