*Isabella's POV*
"Damien..." The name was a breathless whisper, a fucking traitorous sound that escaped my lips before I could stop it. My heart started doing a frantic, painful drum solo against my ribs. "Hey," I added, trying to sound casual, less fucking awkward, but I knew I was failing miserably. The word came out all wrong, high and squeaky.
His eyes, those intense, unreadable eyes, locked onto mine. "Come to my office, Isabella," he said. It wasn't a request. It was a quiet, low-toned command that made the air thicken.
"No, I really can't," I stammered, my brain scrambling for a believable excuse. "we... we have a... a thing downstairs in finance, and I can't miss it." The lie was so pathetic, so transparent, I could practically see it shimmering in the air between us. I knew he could see right through it, see the panic flaring in my eyes.
"Isabella, my office, now," he said, his voice dropping even lower, vibrating with a firm, undeniable authority.
Fuck. Him and his commanding bedroom voice. A shiver traced a path down my spine, completely betraying me. I would follow that man anywhere. The thought was unwanted, dangerous, and utterly true.
He turned and walked back into his office, I turned to Cole, my face burning. "I'll be back right back," I said, I said to him, seeing the mischievous, all-knowing smile spread across his smug face.
"Yeah, you go do your thing," he said, wiggling his eyebrows for good measure.
I pretended I didn't catch the filthy fucking implication, giving him a tight-lipped smile that was more of a grimace, and forced my feet to move, following after Damien into the lion's den.
The door clicked shut behind me, the sound unnaturally loud in the large silence of his office. I stood there, clutching the portfolio like a shield, my eyes fixed on the massive mahogany desk that had been my command centre for so long.
"How are you, Isabella? How's your apartment? Do you need anything?" he said, the words tumbling out, one after the other, a cascade of forced casualness. He was standing by the window, his back to me, but I could see the tension in the set of his shoulders. "Just tell me, and I'll send someone over," he added, finally turning to face me.
"No, everything is fine," I said, my voice thin and lean. Fuck. Not even a weekend apart and I miss him like crazy. The thought hit me like a physical blow. I was the one who made the decision, the one who walked away, but it was so fucking hard. Every fibre of my being was screaming at me to close the distance between us. Why am I not all over him right now?
His eyes, dark and intense, were watching me, a flicker of understanding in their depths. "Isabella," he said, his voice a low rumble. "If you're going to stare like that, you might as well come here and give me a kiss." A small, humourless chuckle escaped his lips.
"What? No..." I stammered, taking a half-step back. "I want to... but... it's only going to make things worse." I had to force the words out, each one a betrayal of what my body wanted. "The sooner we get used to this, the better," I said, trying to sound firm, trying to convince myself.
"Isabella, for fucks sake," he sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up. He looked tired, vulnerable. "I feel like I'm in withdrawal," he admitted, his voice raw. "And I need my fix. My Isabella Fix."
"I feel the same way, Damien," I confessed, the words tearing a hole in my resolve. "I just want to run to you and throw my arms around your neck like in some fucking Romcom." A bitter, broken laugh escaped me. "But we talked about this. It's for the best."
"You're right," he said, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "It's for the best." He took a deep breath, straightening his tie, the cool, composed CEO mask sliding back into place. "Don't I need to sign any documents?" he asked, his voice all business now.
"I totally forgot," I said, grateful for the escape hatch. "Yeah, you have to. I'll leave them on your desk." I walked forward, my legs feeling like lead, and placed the portfolio file on the polished wood of the table. I didn't dare look at him again.
"Have a nice day," I said, the words hollow and formal. I turned and walked out, my head held high, my heart shattering into a million pieces with every step. I didn't look back.
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*Damien's POV*
I stared at her retreating form, my heart aching. A physical fucking ache, like a hole had been punched clean through my ribcage. Yeah, a nice fucking day. The words echoed in the silence of my office, a bitter, sarcastic refrain. The door clicked shut, and the sound was a final, damning punctuation mark. She was gone. Again.
I sank into my leather chair, the expensive leather groaning under my weight. I rubbed a hand over my face. This was all Jacob's fucking fault. His fucking, story about the circus fortune teller and a "connection." Soulmates. What a load of absolute rubbish.
But the other part, the primal, fucked-up part that was tethered to my brother, knew it was true. Knew it the moment I felt his obsessive, pathetic longing for her all the way from fucking Cuba. A thousand miles. I'd never felt anything like it. Not for Rebecca, not for any of the other countless girls. It was a constant, low-level hum of Jacob's feelings, a background noise I'd learned to tune out. But with Isabella... it was a fucking symphony. And it was driving me insane.
I got up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the ant-like traffic below. I gave her that apartment. A bonus, I told her. A lie. It was a tether. A way to keep her close, to make sure she was safe, to ensure a part of her life was still tied to me. And now she was in it, alone, and the thought was both a comfort and a unique form of torture. What was she doing? Was she thinking of me? Or was she already moving on, filling that beautiful, empty space with someone else? The thought sent a white-hot surge of possessiveness through me, so intense it made me clench my fists.
I felt like I was in withdrawal, just like I said. My Isabella Fix. It wasn't a joke. I craved her presence like a drug. The sound of her voice, even when she was being difficult. The way she smelled. The way she rolled her eyes at me. Without her, this office, this whole fucking life, felt grey and meaningless. She'd called us "toxic." She was right. We were a chemical reaction that was bound to explode.
I turned back to my desk, to the portfolio she'd left. A pathetic excuse for an interaction. I was the CEO of a fucking empire, but I couldn't control my own heart, or the bizarre tie to my brother that was ruining everything. I was well and truly fucked. And for the first time in my life, I had no fucking plan.