*Isabella's POV*
"Hey there."
A voice, low and close, cut right through the music playing in my headphones, making me jump. It was a guy, approaching from behind while I was on the treadmill. That voice. It was smooth, like expensive whiskey, and it sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. I tried to take a subtle peek over my shoulder, craning my neck awkwardly as my feet kept moving. And when I realised who it was, my brain short-circuited. My feet tangled, and I went flying, tripping and falling off the back of the fucking machine.
"Owen?" I asked, my voice dazed and confused as I looked up from the floor.
Owen Pheonix. Son of Oliver Pheonix. The old man who had sexually harassed me. The old man who Jacob fucking beat up in my honour. The memories hit me like a freight train – a sickening cocktail of fear and a dark, thrilling satisfaction.
He was there in an instant, his strong hand wrapping around my arm to help me up. "Hi, Isabella. Are you okay?" he asked, his other hand gently cupping my chin to turn my face towards him. His touch was too warm, too familiar.
"I am," I said, quickly stepping back out of his grasp and putting a safe distance between us. The air suddenly felt thick.
"Happy to see you here, though I haven't seen you here before," he said, a charming smile playing on his lips.
"This is my fourth time here," I said, my face burning with terrible, soul-crushing embarrassment. Last time I saw him, which was, by the way, the first time I saw him, I was drooling over him like a horny bitch in heat. Why does he only appear when I'm fucking thirsty? He's crazy handsome, all sharp jawlines and dark, knowing eyes, and I can't help myself from staring.
"I'm actually a regular here. Fancy a tour?" he asked, his voice a smooth, confident glide that was doing dangerous things to my composure. He was standing too close, his scent a clean, spicy mix of cologne and something that was just... intoxicating.
"I... uhm..." I stuttered, my brain short-circuiting. I could feel the heat creeping up my neck, a dead giveaway of my utter fluster. Fucking great, Isabella. Sound like a complete moron why don't you.
He just smiled, a slow, easy curve of his lips that told me he was used to this effect. "Come, I'll tell you everything you need to know," he said, his voice dropping a little lower. "Also, I have a perfect recommendation for a trainer. If you're looking for one, that is."
"Uhm... I'll just stick to the treadmill," I said, the words a weak, pathetic attempt at self-preservation.
And then he winked. Just a, deliberate wink that completely bypassed my brain and went straight to my core. And just like that, I was sold. Fuck it. I guess I need a little attention. He would just show me the gym anyway, right? It's not like I was agreeing to marry him.
I agreed, and for the rest of the day, he spent his time showing me around the rest of the gym. He demonstrated how to use some of the more intimidating-looking equipment, his hands brushing against mine as he adjusted the weights, his body a warm presence beside me. It was... nice. Dangerously nice.
"Thank you for the free training," I said, grabbing my towel and water bottle, desperate for an escape route. "I had a lot of fun, but now I should get going. I have a paper due and..." I was saying, rambling really, when he chimed in, his voice cutting through my nervous babble.
"Can we have dinner sometime?" he asked, his eyes direct and unwavering.
"What? Well, dinner... sometime?" I exclaimed, my voice a nervous squeak. Shit, shit, shit.
"How about tomorrow night?" he asked, pressing his advantage with a disarming smile.
Will dinner hurt? I don't know. My mind was racing. Free food is always good news. It's just dinner. One dinner. It's not a fucking marriage proposal. "Okay, fine," I heard myself say, as if from a distance. "I live in this building, 18th floor. Pick me up at eight."
"I love a woman who knows what she wants," he said with another one of those devastating winks. And as I walked away, I couldn't help but feel like I'd just signed a deal with the devil, a very, very handsome devil.
The next day, I showered and went to work, the usual routine a fragile shield against the chaos in my head. A small stack of papers landed on my desk with a thud and I look up to see Charlotte smiling knowingly.
"I can't go. I have something to do," I said to Charlotte, my voice already laced with the panic I felt rising in my chest.
"Nonsense, you'll go," Charlotte said, shoving the papers into my hands with a cheerfulness that felt frankly cruel. For months, I'd kept trying to avoid going to the top floor, to see Damien, but Charlotte, in her well-meaning but relentless way, kept insisting. Nobody else wants to go see him anyway. I don't know why they think he's scary... for me, he's not, he never was. And that's the fucking problem.
I head upstairs, the elevator ride feeling like a slow rise to the top. I stand outside his office door, near my old desk, the space now empty and sterile. Ah, there it is. The anxiety in my stomach, a familiar, gut-wrenching knot. It's been two months since the breakup, and I still feel my heart tug at the mere thought of seeing him. I've become used to being without them, or at least, I've gotten good at pretending. But damn, my feelings are still the same.
Well, Cole isn't at the desk, no fucking shock there. I take a deep, shaky breath before forcing myself to enter the office.
"Hi," I said, my voice barely a whisper.
"Isabella," he said. The way he said my name, like it was the only word that mattered, sent a jolt straight through me. Don't come closer. Stay there. But of course, the odds were stacked against me. He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing right in front of me, inches away. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell his intoxicating, clean scent. My heart was hammering like a fucking drum.
"Look, Damien, I can't be here for too long. I have some papers for you," I said, holding the stack of papers between us like a weak shield as he moved even closer, his eyes boring into mine.
"How are you?" he asked, his voice low and gentle, completely undoing me.
"Cool, fine, cool," I said, the words tumbling out in a rush of utter bullshit. I sounded like a fucking idiot.
"Isabella, what's wrong?" he asked, his brow furrowing with concern. He saw right through me, he always did.
"Nothing, I'm good," I lied. Damn it. This is why I don't want to come here. He looks at me with so much love, so much adoration, and I feel like I can't lie to him. He's Damien. He's... my Damien.