22. Isabelle
CHAPTER 22
ISABELLE
T he city is quiet. Muted sunlight spills through the slats of the blinds, brushing golden lines across Damian’s bare chest as he sleeps beneath me on his bed at his penthouse. One arm is draped around my waist, the other curled under his head, his jaw still shadowed with sleep.
He looks younger this way. Less guarded. Like the man he was before power taught him how to hide behind silence and steel.
I trace the curve of his shoulder with my fingertips, soft and slow, and he stirs beneath my touch. His eyes don’t open right away, but a smile ghosts across his lips.
“Isabelle,” he murmurs.
“Still here,” I whisper.
His eyes flutter open—hazy, warm, searching for me—and when they find me, something settles in his chest.
He reaches for me, hands gentle on my hips, but I press mine over his, steadying him.
This time, I move. I straddle him, knees tucked on either side of his waist, the sheets falling down my back. He goes still, his eyes wide, reverent, lips slightly parted.
I lean down and kiss him unhurriedly.
He kisses me back like I’m something holy.
Slowly, deliberately, I begin to move.
His hands grip my thighs, not to control but to anchor. His gaze never leaves mine. It’s not just about sex. It’s about connection. It’s about letting myself be seen and giving him the space to feel—not dominate or strategize but feel.
I ride him with tenderness and power, with love and intention.
And the way he moans beneath me—deep and quiet, like I’ve broken something open inside him—makes every part of me ache.
I lean forward, our chests brushing, our mouths inches apart.
“I want to be part of your world,” I whisper. “Not to fix you. Not to save you. Just to stand beside you.”
His hands tighten on my waist. “You already are,” he breathes.
We move together, finding a rhythm that’s more about emotion than release, and when it finally overtakes us, when we shatter all over again, it’s not frantic or wild.
It’s everything I could’ve asked for.
I collapse over his chest, and he wraps his arms around me like he never wants to let go.
Neither do I.
* * *
Damian invites me to join him in the office after we eat. A lot. So much food. We worked up an appetite, let’s just say.
We’re not in the office long at all before there’s a sharp, urgent knock on the office door.
The door opens. The woman doesn’t wait for permission. She just pushes through with her tablet in hand and an almost scared expression on her face.
Damian looks up from across the room. I’m curled on the window bench, watching the rain, sipping tea he made for me himself this morning. For once, I let myself believe things might be okay.
Until now.
“Clara…” Damian says slowly.
“You need to see this,” Clara says tightly, handing him the tablet.
He takes it without a word, and I watch his expression shift from disbelief to comprehension and then to something harder, something cold and hollow and deep.
“What is it?” I ask softly, standing.
He hands me the tablet.
It’s a press release.
GreyCore Industries makes move to acquire Kincaid Global. Hostile takeover bid launched. Board divided.
I read the words twice, but they don’t feel real.
I look up at him.
His jaw is clenched, his eyes stormy and dark. “He waited and watched. He let Veridian Holdings soften the ground, and now he’s striking.”
My stomach drops. “He’s going to gut everything, isn’t he?”
“He doesn’t want the company,” Damian says. “He wants me to be broken and gone.”
My heart aches. “Tell me what you need,” I say.
He shakes his head slowly. “I need to think. I need to act fast. I need to outmaneuver him without losing control of the board…” He trails off as he starts to pace, his hands clasped behind his back.
Clara’s already on the phone in the background, barking orders into her headset.
Just like that, I feel the shift and the return to silence, tension, and tunnel vision.
Not from malice. From fear. Everything he’s ever been afraid of crashing down around him.
Part of me wants to scream. We just got here. We just found our rhythm and chose each other again, and already I feel the walls going back up. Already I feel the weight of trying to hold him together while he holds the rest of the world at bay.
“Damian,” I say, stepping into his path, forcing him to stop. “You can’t shut me out. Not again. If we’re doing this—if I’m with you—you have to let me stay with you. Even now.”
He looks at me. He’s so exhausted and desperate.
Shit. He doesn’t know how to let someone help him, not when the stakes are this high and the battlefield is his name.
Plus, this is his arena, not mine. Is there even anything I can do to help?
“I’m not asking you to stop fighting,” I whisper. “I’m asking you to let me fight with you in whatever way that I can.”
He finally pulls me into his arms. “I don’t know how to be both things, Isabelle. The man who wins… and the man who loves.” His voice is rough against my temple.
I press my hand over his heart. “Then maybe it’s time you learn.”
But inside, I wonder if we can survive this war even if we win it.