6. Isabelle
CHAPTER 6
ISABELLE
T he elevator doors haven’t opened yet when I feel him following me down the hall.
“Isabelle.” His voice is rougher now. Not polished. Not composed.
I recognize that tone.
Damian is all about control, but there are times when he loses it…
Instead of waiting for the elevator, I keep walking down the hallway toward the door for the stairs. “Don’t. Not right now,” I call over my shoulder.
“You’re pulling away again,” he says, catching up to me easily.
I stop short, turning on him so fast he nearly runs into me. “I’m not pulling away,” I snap. “I’m protecting myself.”
We’re alone. The hallway is silent. The floor-to-ceiling windows cast the city in silver shadows, and for one breathless second, we’re back where we always end up. Too close. Too complicated. Too much .
“I’m not trying to control you,” Damian says, his voice low but urgent. “I’m trying to find a way back to you.”
“You can’t just offer me a deal and hope it fixes the past?—”
“I’m not offering a deal.”
“Then what is this, Damian?” I hate that my voice breaks. “Because every time I try to stay grounded, you look at me like that and I forget why I ever walked away.”
He steps forward. He’s now close enough that I feel the heat of him and his damn sheer gravitational pull I’ve never escaped. His hand comes up slowly, like he’s afraid I’ll flinch, and then he brushes his fingers down my jaw.
I should step back.
I should shut this down.
But when he whispers, “I never stopped wanting you,” my heart skips a beat.
And then his mouth is on mine.
It’s not gentle. It’s desperate, raw and aching and years too late. His hands are in my hair, mine at his chest, and the kiss is fire and ruin and everything we swore we wouldn’t do again. He tastes like control undone, like power finally bending at the knees.
I hate how much I still want this.
I hate that he remembers exactly how to kiss me, tongues dueling, fighting, giving and taking.
This kiss? It’s like I’m not just someone he wants but someone he needs.
We break apart, and I’m panting. So is he.
“This changes nothing,” I whisper, even though we both know it’s a lie.
Damian’s eyes are wild with emotion. “It changes everything.”
And when he kisses me again, I don’t stop him.
Whatever fire we thought we buried, it never went out.
His hands are on my waist now, pulling me closer like he can’t bear the space between us. I feel it too, that magnetic ache, the desperate need to be closer, to feel something real in a world that’s always spinning too fast.
I break the kiss just long enough to gasp, “Damian…”
But I don’t stop him.
My back hits the wall, and his mouth is on my neck, slow at first then more urgent, like he’s trying to memorize the curve of my skin. He has to hear the sound of my breath catching.
I arch into him without meaning to, every nerve lit up, every thought gone.
His hands move over me—my sides, my hips, my back—like he’s trying to remember the shape of us piece by piece. When he slips one hand beneath the hem of my blouse, just to rest his palm against my bare waist, my breath stutters hard.
I’m burning.
Not with lust—though that’s there, sharp and electric—but with memory, longing, anger, and regret. The raw, unbearable truth that he still knows my body better than anyone ever has.
And that I still want him.
I reach up, tugging at his tie with trembling fingers. I loosen it just a little, like I used to. His breath hitches against my collarbone. His hand slides higher under the lace edge of my bra, but he doesn’t grope. He rests there. He’s not trying to possess me, just hold onto me. Just feel me.
And maybe that’s worse.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Not from sadness. From everything.
He kisses my mouth again, slower this time. Less heat and more ache. It’s like he recognizes the fact that this moment won’t last, but maybe he’s not ready to let go yet.
Neither am I.
My fingers find the buttons of his shirt. I undo two, maybe three, before flattening my hand against his chest over his heart.
It’s pounding just like mine is.
I’m afraid to say anything in case it breaks the spell.
We stay there, pressed together, until the fire finally fades to a low, aching glow.
He leans his forehead against mine. “I didn’t plan for this,” he murmurs.
“Neither did I.”
He brushes a kiss against my temple, and somehow, it feels more intimate than everything else.
Then I gently step back, and he lets me go.
But I know Damian. He’s only letting me go for now.
* * *
I don’t return his calls.
Not the first one. Not the second. Not the string of short, clipped voicemails that follow.
I need space. I need air. I need to think.
Because that kiss, that make-out session… it wasn’t just passion or history or chemistry. It was an unraveling the likes of which rewrites boundaries you thought were made of steel.
I know exactly how this goes.
First comes the fire.
Then the fallout.
I’ve rebuilt myself once already. I’m not sure I can do it again.
So I keep my head down and focus on the next exhibit. I take long walks through the park, earbuds in, pretending I don’t feel his presence trailing me like smoke.
But of course, he doesn’t wait long.
He never does.
Three days after the kisses, I step out of my studio and he’s there, leaning against the hood of a black car like he owns the damn sidewalk. No suit jacket this time, just a rolled-sleeve button-down, shadowed eyes, and the kind of focused expression that makes it very clear he’s not here on business.
I freeze. “Damian.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Me too.” His voice is quiet but certain. “About you. About those kisses. About what happens if we don’t stop pretending this is over when it isn’t.”
I cross my arms. “It doesn’t change the past.”
“No,” he agrees, stepping closer, “but maybe it means there’s something left worth salvaging.”
“I don’t need rescuing.”
“I know that, and I don’t recall saying that you did.” Another step. “But I can’t pretend I don’t want you, just like I can’t pretend that I haven’t wanted you every day since you left.”
I hate how those words make my heart clench.
I look away, my jaw so tight that pain radiates up to my ear. “This intensity… it’s what undid us before. You burn too hot, Damian. You don’t bend . You pull, and you consume.”
He closes the final distance between us, stopping just shy of touching me. “Maybe I’m not asking you to bend this time. Maybe I’m the one who needs to learn how.”
I want to believe him, but I’ve seen the cost of letting him in.
“I can’t fall back into something that still feels like a risk,” I murmur. Even though every part of me wants to avert my gaze, I force myself not to.
He searches my face, his expression open in a way I’m not used to seeing. “Then let me prove I’m worth the risk.”
I shake my head, backing away slowly and carefully. “Don’t chase me, Damian.”
His expression doesn’t change, and although he says nothing, I already know he will.
Deep down, I’m afraid that a part of me wants to stop running.