5. Isabelle
CHAPTER 5
ISABELLE
I shouldn’t be this shaken.
It was just a conversation. Just a business proposal. A perfectly reasonable, perfectly timed offer from a man known for making moves exactly like that. Calculated. Ambitious. Strategic.
Except it wasn’t.
I felt it. Beneath the surface of his words, beneath the formal tone and the polished delivery. There was something raw in his eyes. Something personal.
That’s what terrifies me.
Because if it were just business, I could consider it. Hell, I would consider it. I acted na?ve, but I already knew about The Kincaid Collection. It’s prestigious, powerful, and far-reaching. His offer would have my work front and center, backed by an empire that can turn passion into legacy.
But nothing with Damian Kincaid has ever been just business.
Not when he used to touch the small of my back like it anchored him. Not when he looked at my paintings like he wanted to memorize them. Not when he kissed me like he could rewrite the definition of control.
And not now when he offers me a professional partnership with that same look in his eyes. Like he’s not just trying to expand his empire.
Like he’s trying to step back into mine.
I lean against the back wall of the gallery, watching him through the crowd. He stands near Resonance , hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the canvas. People pass around him, admiring the work, praising the technique, sipping their wine. He doesn’t move.
That painting nearly broke me when I made it, and now he’s staring at it like it’s breaking him.
God, he doesn’t even realize what he’s asking.
Letting him in, even just professionally, means opening a door I fought hard to close. Mixing business with him means late calls and shared space, overlapping lives. It means entanglement .
I don’t know if I can come out of that twice and still recognize myself.
But I also know that I haven’t said no. I don’t necessarily want to say now.
And that scares me even more.
* * *
I tell myself I’m only here to observe.
The meeting is being held in one of Kincaid’s private boardrooms—sleek glass walls, sharp-edged furniture, and city views so wide and high they make you forget there’s a world below. It’s all so Damian it hurts.
He invited me to sit in. He knows it’s not a done deal yet. He claims it’s just so I could “get a feel for how the collection operates.” His words. Polished. Neutral.
I agreed, and now I’m watching him destroy a man with a smile.
The gallery liaison, some mild-mannered director with an artistic soul, dares to suggest that one of the pieces scheduled for the fall rotation should be swapped for a lesser-known artist he believes in.
Damian doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. His tone drops just slightly. His smile never shifts, but his words?
“I don’t invest in gut feelings. I invest in certainties. I don’t elevate artists because they might be good someday. I elevate them because I already know they are. You want to gamble? Go to Vegas. Not my boardroom.”
The room falls silent.
The liaison swallows hard and nods.
Everyone else does too.
I sit perfectly still.
I remember that voice. That tone. The calm, deliberate control that can slice through anyone in its path, including me.
After the meeting, he turns to me, all warmth and smooth edges again. “Thoughts?”
“On the meeting?” I ask carefully.
“On the offer.”
I take a long breath, choosing my words like I’m defusing a bomb. “You’re impressive. You always have been.”
“But?” His jaw tightens.
“But I’m not sure I fit into that version of your world.”
His expression shutters slightly. “Because I have standards?”
“No. Because you have control, total control, and art doesn’t live there.”
He studies me like I’m a puzzle with a missing piece. “You think I want to control you.”
I raise an eyebrow, shocked that he’s cutting straight to the chase. “Don’t you?”
There it is again, that flicker, that tension between who he was with me in private and who he becomes in business. He doesn’t see the difference, not really. It’s all about order, vision, and direction. Somewhere along the way, emotions and feelings are lost.
Just like it did the first time.
He steps closer, his voice low. “This isn’t personal, Isabelle.”
But it is. It always is.
And the worst part? Some traitorous part of me still wants to say yes.