21. Isabelle
CHAPTER 21
ISABELLE
T he next day, I’m painting when the thought catches me off guard.
It’s been one of those slow, quiet days, the kind where the brush moves but the heart doesn’t. The canvas stares back at me, half-finished. I’ve been restless, and my mind keeps drifting.
To him.
To us.
To our fight.
I replay every moment like I’m trying to extract some truth from them that I missed while I was too busy being angry, and there is truth, sitting quietly in the spaces between my resentment and his regret.
He’s still trying.
Even now.
Despite the threat to his company, he still showed up. He would bring me dinner. Now, he didn’t listen perfectly always but better than he used to. His shoulders have been tighter, his eyes more shadowed. That has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the weight he’s carrying.
Suddenly, I feel a low thrum of guilt. I’ve been so focused on making sure I’m not sidelined again that I forgot that Damian Kincaid is not invincible. He’s afraid. He’s trying to love me while the ground under him is cracking open.
And what have I done? I’ve demanded more. Asked for proof. Pulled back when he stumbled.
Not because I don’t love him. But because I was trying to protect myself.
But maybe love isn’t about waiting to be chosen.
Maybe it’s about choosing back.
Even when it’s uncertain.
Even when it’s not convenient.
Even when I don’t know where I fit into his world.
I lower my brush and sit back on the stool, heart thudding.
I’m not part of the business world. I can’t fix the Veridian Holdings threat or outmaneuver hostile investors, but maybe I don’t have to. Maybe I can offer something else, something that isn’t strategy or power or leverage but is still worth something.
Support at the very least.
Presence.
Faith.
Maybe he doesn’t need a solution. Maybe he just needs someone who believes he’s more than what he’s built.
I glance down at my paint-streaked hands and exhale. I’ve been trying to protect myself from being hurt again, but love isn’t safe, and the version of love I want with Damian, the version where we choose each other every day even when it’s hard? That requires both of us.
Maybe it’s time I start asking not just what he owes me but what I’m willing to give.
* * *
It takes me a bit, a long while, but I come up with some ideas, and a few days later, I head inside the tower with KINCAID etched in steel across the front like a monument to ambition.
Now I walk straight through the front doors.
The woman at reception stiffens as I approach. “Mr. Kincaid doesn’t have any appointments?—”
“I know. He’s not expecting me, but?—”
“You’re Isabelle, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I say slowly.
She smirks and makes a point of looking at her phone and not reaching for it. “Go ahead up.”
I offer her a small smile, and her smirk grows.
A beat later, I’m in the elevator, heart pounding. I don’t have a plan. What I have is conviction and a folder tucked under my arm filled with what might be the missing piece he’s been looking for.
When I step into the top-floor office, Damian’s standing at the window, phone to his ear, voice low and clipped. He turns when he hears me, and his entire body goes still.
“Let me call you back,” he says, and ends the call without waiting for a reply. “Isabelle?”
“I know I’m not supposed to be here,” I say, walking toward him, “but I think I can help.”
He frowns, cautious. “Help with what?”
“Veridian Holdings.”
That gets his full attention.
I set the folder on the table between us. “I’ve been doing research. Not spying, just… watching more or less, and I remembered something from last year, one of the patrons who came through the gallery. A woman named Estelle Raynor. You probably wouldn’t know her. She’s quiet, extremely private, but she’s one of the top cultural liaisons in Europe, and she sits on the Veridian Holdings board.”
Damian slowly walks to the folder and opens it.
“I reached out to her,” I continue. “Not to pull strings. Just to ask questions and see what Veridian Holdings’ endgame is, and I found out something interesting. They don’t want your media empire.”
He looks up sharply.
“They want the tech under it—the behavioral analytics platform. They want the data intelligence not the content.”
He blinks once, like he’s recalibrating.
“I also spoke to a contact in the nonprofit sector who just transitioned into ESG compliance. She gave me a list of firms Veridian Holdings won’t touch for ethical reasons. If you reroute part of your infrastructure—your social initiatives, your sustainability reports—they’ll back off.”
He’s quiet as he stares at me. “You did this,” he says slowly, “on your own?”
“I did it for you,” I reply. “Being an artist is mostly solidary so I know what it’s like to fight alone, and… I’m tired of pretending I’m not more than someone who waits for you to come home.”
He sets the folder down and walks toward me. His voice is low and rough. “You’re not just someone I come home to. Although I wish you would consider moving into my place. Make it our place. I know we’re not ready for that, but?—”
I meet his eyes. “If I’m not just someone you come home to, then let me be someone who stands beside you too.”
The silence between us hums like a live wire. Then he pulls me into a kiss that says “thank you” and “I’m sorry” and “I see you” all at once.
His kiss hits me like a truth. There’s no pretense in it. No desperation. Just the quiet, aching clarity of two people who have fought their way back to each other, bruised but still standing.
Damian pulls back only slightly, his forehead resting against mine. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”
“I know,” I whisper, “but I wanted to. I chose to.”
Something shifts in his eyes, and the last of his defenses finally drop. This kiss is different, hungrier, raw, but still reverent, like he’s afraid to break me… and I’m afraid not to break with him.
I thread my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. He groans softly against my mouth, and the sound goes straight to the center of me. My skin is already tingling, my pulse wild. This isn’t just about desire. It’s about finally . It’s about yes .
He lifts me into his arms like it’s instinct, like he was always meant to carry me somewhere softer, and I don’t resist. I hold on. I trust him.
The desk is behind me, cool against the backs of my thighs. He pushes everything to one side and then he lifts me up and sets me down, slow and reverent. His hands are on my hips, fingers shaking, not from hesitation but from restraint. Like he wants to fall apart and is just barely holding himself together.
And then he stops.
He looks at me—really looks.
His chest is rising and falling with uneven breath, his pupils wide with need, but it’s the emotion in his eyes that undoes me. Not lust. Not pride.
Wonder.
Like he can’t believe I’m here, that we’re here.
His hands tremble slightly as he brushes my hair from my face. “Tell me this is real,” he murmurs.
“It is,” I say. “You are.”
That’s all it takes.
His mouth finds mine again, and this time we don’t stop. His jacket falls to the floor. I tug his shirt up and over his head, my hands exploring skin I’ve only remembered in shadow. He’s warm. Solid. Human. Mine.
He undresses me piece by piece, pausing between each removal like he’s asking for permission. Like he’s grateful for it. His hands trace the curve of my stomach, the line of my ribs, the dip of my hipbone as if mapping something beautiful and irreplaceable.
He makes love to me on his desk, the same desk where he’s wielded power, made empires bend, signed contracts that changed lives. Right now, though, it’s just us. Flesh. Breath. Heartbeats tangled.
He moves inside me like he’s learning how to breathe again, and I receive him the same way—with trembling fingers and open eyes. With my whole body soft and bare and willing. Not because I’m giving in. Because I’m choosing this.
Choosing him.
He worships every inch of me with his hands, his lips, his focus. Not like a man claiming something but like a man who’s finally allowed himself to feel everything he was afraid of.
He kisses me like he’s memorizing every moment we lost, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he looks away for even a second.
His mouth is on my throat, his hands moving over my body like he’s rediscovering sacred ground—lips brushing over my collarbone, down the line of my chest, reverent and slow. He doesn’t rush. He worships.
Every kiss is a confession, every touch an apology.
His forehead presses to mine, his breath mixing with mine, and I can feel it—feel him—not just in my body but in every scar he’s never spoken aloud.
This is what forgiveness tastes like. It’s fierce and fragile and alive.
And when we finally shatter, it’s not just release. It’s a reckoning. A surrender. A vow.
After, we don’t move for a long time.
He cradles me against his chest, his hands moving slowly down my back, over the places he’s just learned for the second time.
This was never just about need. It was about finding our home, and we’re finally letting ourselves live in it.