7. Damian
CHAPTER 7
DAMIAN
I haven’t been sleeping lately, not really.
I close my eyes, but all I see is her standing beneath the gallery lights, lips parted after a kiss, spine straight even when she’s afraid I’ll hurt her again. She thinks I don’t feel guilty and that I only want to win.
But this doesn’t feel like winning.
It feels like bleeding .
I pace my office long after everyone’s gone home, my jacket off, tie forgotten on the back of a chair. The skyline glitters beyond the windows, hollow and cold. My empire. My monument to control.
It’s never felt smaller.
I slam a folder shut. Another acquisition finalized today—an entire distribution channel locked in—but all I can think about is how she backed away from me like I was a cliff she almost walked off.
“You pull, and you consume.”
I didn’t used to care about words like that. Not when I was building something bigger than myself. Not when every deal, every partnership, every negotiation was about securing power.
But now, her words dig in like nails behind my ribs because she’s right. I’ve controlled everything from my image and emotions to my life. It not only kept me safe. It kept me functional.
Until she came back.
Until those kisses tore straight through the walls I built and left me bare.
I’ve faced down CEOs who’ve threatened to ruin me. I’ve taken on billion-dollar negotiations and walked out with the room under my thumb. Isabelle, though, makes me feel helpless.
Worse. She makes me hope, and I don’t know how to live with that.
I grip the edge of my desk and stare down at the phone. I could call her again and try to explain or attempt to bargain.
But this isn’t a deal I can close.
This is her, and I’m losing control.
The man I’ve had to become to survive this world, the man who can turn emotion into silence and vulnerability into strategy, is unraveling and losing his edge.
And I don’t know who I am without the armor.
* * *
I tell myself I’m just going for a drive, that she’s not the only one who needs air, space, or silence.
But I end up on her street.
It’s almost midnight.
The city’s quieter now, the chaos softened by the hush of late hours and dim streetlamps. I sit in the car for a full minute, I don’t turn off the car immediately so my engine’s humming low before I finally cut it off. My heart’s beating like I just came out of a fight.
Maybe I have.
With myself.
With the version of me that says, “Don’t do this. Don’t make it worse.”
But I’m already out of my car.
The sidewalk is slick from a passing rain, the brick of her building glowing faintly under warm porch light. I press the buzzer on the callbox once.
Twice.
The speaker crackles. “Hello?”
Her voice is groggy, confused, and layered with sleep. Damn, I shouldn’t have come.
“Damian?” she asks, her tone a bit more alert now and far too suspicious.
“Lucky guess.”
I hear the hesitation drop into the silence like a stone.
“It’s late,” she finally says.
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know that too.”
I wait, but there’s no answer.
“I just need to see you,” I say quietly. “Please.”
A long pause.
Then the lock buzzes, and the door clicks open.
I climb the stairs two at a time. She’s in the doorway when I reach her floor, arms folded over a soft sweater, her hair a mess of waves. She looks beautiful in the kind of way that makes my throat go tight.
“I shouldn’t have let you in,” she murmurs.
“Probably not.”
She doesn’t step aside, so I do the only thing I can—I drop every defense I have left.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit. “Not with you. Not when it feels like everything I say might push you further away.”
Her eyes search mine, and I can clearly see that she’s tired of the chase, tired of not knowing if I’m offering part of me or all of me.
“I’ve spent so long building walls I forgot what it’s like to want someone more than I want control,” I say, “but I want you, and I don’t know how to want you halfway.”
Her breath catches, and neither of us moves.
“I don’t trust you,” she whispers.
“I don’t blame you.”
“I want to, but I don’t.”
“Let me stay until you do.”
It’s reckless and stupid, but for the first time since I built this empire, I want something real more than I want anything else.
Isabelle doesn’t say anything right away. She just stands there, staring at me like she’s trying to peel back every layer or wall I’ve ever used to keep her out. My heart’s pounding. I’ve stood in front of investors who could ruin me and sat across from tycoons with knives hidden behind smiles, and I’ve never felt more exposed than I do right now.
Still, I don’t move. I meant what I said.
Finally, she steps aside.
No spoken invitation, but this quiet gesture is everything.
I move past her, and the door clicks softly shut behind us. The apartment smells like bergamot and paint. The walls are scattered with unfinished pieces, soft palettes, and raw emotion layered into canvas and frame. The room is dim, the only light spilling from a reading lamp near the couch and the halo of streetlights filtering through gauzy curtains.
She stays by the door, arms still folded like a barrier she’s not ready to lower. “I didn’t expect you to show up,” she says.
“I didn’t expect to want something this much again.”
Her eyes narrow, her expression cautious without a hint of anger. “And what is it you want, Damian?”
I hesitate. The words press at my throat, bigger than anything I’ve said aloud in years.
“Redemption,” I say finally. “Not just with you. With myself. I built something invincible. Profitable. Efficient. But the only time it ever felt alive… was when you were in it.”
She swallows, and her arms fall to her sides.
I step closer. “I was scared to need someone, scared of how much power that gave you over me.”
Her voice is quieter now. “And now?”
“Now I’m more scared of living without it.”
After a breath or two, she steps back and sits on the arm of the couch. Her hair falls around her face as she looks down, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. I’ve never seen her look so unsure… or so beautiful.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” she says, barely audible.
“You don’t have to do anything. I’m not here to force you into a decision or sell you a pitch.” I cross to her, slow, deliberate, giving her time to stop me.
She doesn’t.
“I’m here because I’m still in love with you,” I say, “even after everything. Maybe because of everything. And I’m willing to be the man who deserves to be in your life.”
Her eyes lift to mine, wide and vulnerable, and in that look, I see a thousand unsaid things—fear, longing, memory, hope.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said those words to her already. It’s too soon. She’ll never believe me. Words are empty. They can be twisted. I know what to say in a boardroom. I know how to get investors to trust me and back me. This is feelings and emotions, a whole new arena where I feel vulnerable and powerless.
She’s an artist. Emotions are everything to her. This divide between us, can it ever be crossed again?
But then she leans her head lightly against my chest and lets out a shaky breath, and I wrap my arms around her and hold her like a man who’s finally stopped running from what matters.
We stay like that for a long time with her head against my chest, my arms around her, the sound of her breath evening out just enough to suggest she’s letting herself trust the moment, even if she’s not ready to trust me yet.
I don’t move. I don’t dare.
Eventually, she pulls back, blinking slowly like she’s only just now registering the time. “It’s late,” she says.
“I know.”
“You probably shouldn’t drive.”
I pause. Of course I can drive. I’m awake and aware. Far too aware of her.
“Do you want me to leave?” I ask.
She hesitates, and my entire chest aches.
“You can stay,” she says softly. “The couch is clean.”
I nod once. “Thank you.”
She moves to the linen closet, and I follow her with my eyes, memorizing the way she walks, the slight sway of her sweater, the quiet focus as she folds the edges of the blanket before handing it to me. There’s a kind of delicate care in the way she moves. She always had that. Her quiet elegance made me want to bulldoze the world just to create space for it.
“I don’t do this, you know,” she says as I place the blanket on the couch.
“What?”
“Let people stay.”
I wince because I’m certain she could easily add, “Not after you.”
I meet her gaze, and something in my chest pulls tight. “I won’t take it for granted.”
She nods once, slow and unsure, then shifts toward the hallway. “Goodnight, Damian.”
“Goodnight, Isabelle.”
I want to say more. I want to tell her that this—this nothing between us right now—is already more meaningful than a thousand other nights I’ve had in luxury hotel suites and boardrooms and sterile penthouses.
But I don’t. I hope she already knows.
The bedroom door clicks shut behind her, and I sit down on the couch in the dim light of her apartment, blanket beside me, heart racing like I’m a teenager again.
I’ve been in penthouses across the world, but tonight, sleeping on this couch with her just down the hall? It might be the most important place I’ve ever been.
* * *
I miss a call with Tokyo.
That’s the first sign something’s slipping.
I never miss calls. Especially not ones that involve international licensing deals worth eight figures. But I forget. I actually forget.
Because I was with her.
On her couch. Feet tangled, her head on my shoulder, some indie film playing in the background we didn’t really watch. She fell asleep halfway through. I wanted to brush back her hair and press a kiss to her forehead, but I just stared down at her, memorizing the slope of her nose, the way her fingers curled slightly in her sleep like she was still holding something.
Maybe me.
And I forgot the damn call.
At the office, it’s starting to show. My assistant gives me a schedule update and I ask her to repeat herself. Twice. I’m behind on approvals. I leave meetings early. The Kincaid board starts murmuring about my “inaccessibility.”
I’ve never been inaccessible .
She’s in my head. All. The. Time.
I find myself rereading her last text when I should be reviewing contracts. Driving past her studio on my way home, even if it’s blocks out of the way. I cancel a lunch with an investor just to meet her for a fifteen-minute coffee, and it ends up stretching to an hour because I can’t seem to leave her side.
This isn’t like me. I’ve spent my entire life training focus into muscle memory. Control was my weapon, routine my religion.
But with Isabelle, I want the chaos.
I want the unscheduled moments. The lingering glances. The curve of her smile after I say something unexpected. I want the uncertainty, even if it terrifies me.
I know precisely what’s happening. She’s becoming the center of my gravity, and the empire is starting to orbit her, not the other way around .
My drive, my business came first before. That’s how I lost her.
What if in gaining her back now, I lose my business in the process? Am I willing to take that risk?
* * *
A week later, she’s laughing when we step inside her apartment—soft, unguarded, the sound catching me off guard in the best way. I don’t even remember what I said to make her laugh like that. All I know is that I want to hear her laugh every day for the rest of my life.
The door clicks shut behind us.
She turns toward me, but if she planned on saying something, words fail her. The second her eyes meet mine, the words fade, for both of us, I wager.
We’re close. Too close.
Or maybe not close enough.
Her lips part slightly, and I step in. I don’t touch her. Not yet. I just let the air between us thin until I can feel her breath on mine.
“You undo me,” I murmur.
She draws in a shaky, unsure breath. “Damian…”
Hearing my name on her lips breaks my control, and I kiss her.
There’s no pretense. No slow build this time. Just heat and hunger and God, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed her. We’ve been spending more time together, but I’ve been taking things slowly, letting her dictate the pace, but right now, I’m on the verge of breaking.
She gasps into my mouth as I wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against me, her fingers curling into my shirt like she’s trying to hold on or push me away. Maybe both.
We stumble back toward the couch, lips never parting, hands greedy and uncertain. She tastes like cinnamon and defiance. Her sweater slips off one shoulder, and I kiss the newly exposed skin like a man starved.
My hands slide down her back, her thighs, her hips—familiar territory I forgot I knew so well. She threads her fingers into my hair and pulls me closer.
It would be so easy to fall back into this. To take her to bed and lose myself in her body like I used to—before the silence, before the space, before I ruined us.
But I force myself to stop.
Barely.
I pull away, breathing hard, forehead pressed to hers. “We should slow down.”
She nods, her half-lidded eyes hazy. “Probably.”
Neither of us move. My hands are still on her waist. Her nails are still digging into my shoulder.
“I don’t want this to be impulsive,” I say. “I want you to want this as much as I do, and I don’t mean a one-time thing. I don’t want to lose you again.”
She looks up at me, eyes wide and glassy. “Then don’t let go.”
Just like that, she nearly undoes me again.
But I nod, and again, I stay the night. Again, we don’t have sex. This time, though, we fall asleep tangled on the couch, her breath warm against my neck, her hand over my heart.
And for the first time in years, I don’t feel hollow when I close my eyes.
I feel complete.