"There's no such thing, Jacob. What the fuck is a promised one anyway?" Damien countered, his tone flat but razor-sharp.
Jacob rolled his eyes, dragging a hand down his face like he couldn't believe he was having this conversation again.
"Besides," Damien went on, his voice cutting, "how the hell could she be promised to both of us? Explain that math to me. I still don't understand how you made it this far in life, honestly. You've got the brain of an eight-year-old. Now stop wasting my time with this bullshit. I've got phone calls to make." He pulled out his phone like the conversation was already over.
"She knows," Jacob shot back, annoyance slipping into his tone.
"Who knows what?" Damien retorted, eyes still locked on his screen.
"I told Isabella everything," Jacob said evenly. "Our connections. Your feelings."
Damien's phone almost slipped from his hand. His head snapped up, his calm cracking into something far more dangerous. "You did what?" he spat, his voice low and venomous.
"Would you stop fucking overreacting for a second and listen," Jacob fired back, leaning against the desk like he owned the room. "You call me an eight-year-old, but look at you, about to have a tantrum because I told the truth."
Damien exhaled through his nose, a long, sharp sigh that didn't cool the fire in his eyes.
Jacob pushed forward. "The woman is fucking crazy about you. And you feel the same, don't even try to deny it. She's at your feet every damn time you walk into a room, but you've got these unflinching 'work ethics' like they're chains. Screw them. For once in your life, Damien, screw the rules."
Damien stayed silent, jaw clenching.
Jacob smirked, sensing the crack in his brother's armor. "I think once she sees you actually return her feelings… she'll consider being with us."
"We don't do that, Jacob. Not anymore," Damien snapped, his voice low but final, like a gavel hitting the bench.
"Yes, we fucking do," Jacob shot back, unflinching. "Stop being so goddamn stubborn. It's our destiny. We can't do it any other way. You know we tried, but—"
"Don't you dare," Damien cut him off, his voice cracking like a whip. His fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white. His eyes blazed with a fury that could set the room on fire. "Don't you fucking dare mention her."
"I'm just saying," Jacob replied, calm in a way that only made Damien's anger worse. "It's been more than two years for you, brother. That's not normal. Not for a man, not for a woman either."
"Shut up," Damien hissed, his glare sharp enough to cut.
The air went heavy. The room fell into a suffocating silence, thick with unspoken pain and rage. Neither moved, neither blinked. Only the sound of Damien's ragged breathing filled the space between them.
"Look, Isabella's living here now," Jacob said, shifting the subject like it was nothing. "Which means there's gonna be a lot of make-out sessions you'll have to endure."
Damien's head snapped toward him. "What? She's what? Living here? How the hell did this happen?"
"In a nutshell," Jacob shrugged, "she didn't exactly have anywhere else to go. I told her we've got plenty of space. She wasn't convinced at first, but, you know…" He smirked, that dirty little grin plastered on his face. "I did some convincing. The rest is history."
"I don't want to know," Damien muttered, rolling his eyes, his tone sharp enough to shut a door.
Jacob leaned forward, undeterred. "It doesn't have to be this way, you know. You can allow yourself to live again. It's okay if you do." That ended the conversation. Both brothers retreated awkwardly to their rooms, the weight of unspoken words trailing after them like shadows. But that night, Damien lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his brother's words gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Live again. As if it were that fucking simple.
Damien tossed and turned, his mind refusing to quiet. Jacob's words echoed—live again. But the ghost of his past still clawed at him, the wound not healed even after two years. Anger mixed with guilt, and then Isabella crept in—her laugh, her smile, the way she looked at him with something dangerously close to devotion. It scared the hell out of him because he wanted her too, but admitting that felt like betrayal. Between the past he couldn't let go of and the pull he couldn't deny, sleep never eluded him.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
*Isabella's POV*
Today I woke up feeling like shit, tired, embarrassed, and guilty all at once. After Damien fucking walked in on us last night, I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to act around him. Not to mention, he saw me in that slutty excuse for pajamas while I was sucking face with his brother. Just… kill me now.
I dragged on a baggy shirt and sweatpants, figuring the less skin the better, before heading downstairs. And low and behold there he was. Damien. In the goddamn kitchen.
"Morning, sir," I greeted awkwardly, my voice cracking like a dumbass teenager.
"Isabella," he said with a smile.
And holy shit. So this is it, Damien Lancaster in casual clothes. Sweatpants. A t-shirt. No immaculate suit, no icy CEO aura. Just… Damien. And suddenly, like in that hotel room, he felt more human. Approachable. Dangerous in a completely different way.
"You're up so early. It's barely six," he asked, turning toward me.
"I didn't exactly have dinner last night. I'm starving," I muttered, trying not to sound defensive.
"Actually, I'm hungry too—that's why I'm here." He nodded toward the stove. "I actually made something."
I blinked. "YOU!"
He chuckled softly. "I… cook sometimes. Not so often since I moved here though."
"Okay… bring it on," I said with a smirk before my brain screamed what the fuck are you doing. Did I seriously just flirt with Damien Lancaster over scrambled eggs? Guess Damien in sweatpants really does mess with my fucking head.
"I'll just wait over there," I added quickly, retreating to the dining room like the coward I am.
He set the plates down on the table, and we sat across from each other. The silence was unbearable, so I decided to just fucking rip the band-aid off.
"Sir, I know it's… strange for you to come home and find me living with your brother," I started, my words tumbling out faster than I wanted. I stared at the damn fork instead of his face. "I told him it wasn't a good idea, but he insisted, and I swear I'll pick up my things and go back to my place this evening."
The words felt heavy, final. Like I was already packing my bags in my head.
"It's fine, Isabella. I don't mind," he said, calm as hell. Then, with that cool, steady tone of his, he added, "Actually… I like having you around."
I froze. My brain short-circuited.
Did Damien Lancaster—the man who could slice people in half with a single glare—just fucking flirt with me?
My face was on fire, and of course, I had no poker face. Heat crawled all the way down my neck, betraying me like the coward I am.