28. Isabelle
CHAPTER 28
ISABELLE
W hen he says, “I chose you,” something inside me split wide open. Relief. Love. Devotion.
Beautiful emotions that crash into your bones after too many months of holding your breath.
I barely remember closing the distance. One second, I’m standing in front of the sculpture I was adjusting. The next, I’m in his arms, clutching the lapels of his rain-dampened coat, feeling the ragged rise and fall of his chest.
“You let it go,” I whisper, searching his eyes.
“I let everything go,” he murmurs, “except you.”
Then he kisses me.
It’s different this time. Still hungry, still intense, but softer, surer. Like he’s not trying to take anything. Like he’s finally giving himself to me.
I take his hand in mine, and I lead him upstairs.
My gallery has a small artist loft above it—unfinished walls, old floorboards, and a skylight that watches over me like an old friend. The moment we reach the top step, he stops me with a hand at my waist.
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice rough, reverent.
I answer by reaching for the hem of his shirt and tugging it over his head. “Yes,” I whisper. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
We strip each other slowly. No rush. No frenzy. Just layers of armor peeled away with every button, every breath, every kiss pressed to skin like a sacred vow.
When he finally lowers me onto the old studio daybed, he hovers above me, eyes locked on mine.
“You’re everything,” he says. “I didn’t see it before. I was too busy surviving.”
I cup his face, my thumb brushing the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “You see it now,” I whisper. “That’s what matters.”
And then he enters me—slow, careful, like he’s relearning the shape of love.
My legs wrap around him, pulling him deeper, grounding him. His hands grip my hips, his mouth buried against my neck. Every movement is deliberate. Anchored. No roles. No power games. Just us, flesh to flesh, heart to heart.
We move together like we’re rewriting the language of every time we broke apart.
“Isabelle,” he groans.
“Damian… Give me all of you,” I whisper, stroking his face.
When he presses his forehead to mine, I see the tears shining in his eyes, and I realize mine are already falling.
This right here isn’t just lovemaking.
It’s a homecoming, a reclamation of everything we thought we’d lost.
We fall together, trembling and undone, and when the storm inside us finally stills, he wraps me in his arms and holds me like he never plans to let go.
Neither do I.
There’s no empire between us, just a love that’s real, messy, and ours.