*Isabella's POV*
"I have a date tonight," I admitted, the words tumbling out of my mouth before my brain could fucking stop them.
"What?" he exclaimed in shock and fury. His face, which had been soft with concern just seconds ago, hardened into a cold, angry mask.
"I'm sorry, I just blurted that out," I stammered, taking an involuntary step back. "But I can't keep anything from you. I don't even think it's a real date, but I think you should know." My voice was a pathetic, rambling mess.
"I thought you were focusing on school, not dating," he spat out, each word laced with a venom that made me flinch.
"I am focusing on school," I said defensively, my own anger starting to bubble up to cover my fear. "It's just dinner. Not a real date, but still dinner with a man, so I thought I should tell you."
"How thoughtful of you," he said, his voice dripping with a sarcasm so thick you could choke on it. His anger was no longer bubbling below the surface; it was a fucking volcano about to erupt.
"I see now that I trusted you for nothing," I sighed, the fight draining out of me. This was a mistake. A huge, terrible mistake. "Forget I said anything. Your angry face is scaring me," I said, turning around, desperate to escape the suffocating pressure of his presence.
"Why? Should I not be jealous?" he spat out, his frustration boiling over, his voice rising to a shout. "Because the love of my life is fucking moving on from me?! Then she comes here and tells me like I'm her fucking bestie!!" The roar of his voice echoed off the walls, a raw, wounded sound that tore right through me.
"Damien, your voice! Tone it down, goddamn it!" I said, whipping back around to face him, my own fear forgotten in the face of his outburst.
"You, Isabella," he said, closing the distance between us in a single, predatory stride. He grabbed my arms, his grip tight but not painful. "You're mine. Don't you forget." His voice was a low, dangerous growl, and the words made my heart ache with a painful, confusing mix of fear and longing.
"If you're done with your dominating alpha bullshit, I'm gonna head out, okay? And thank you for reminding me why I ended this in the first place." I spun around and stormed out, but not before I saw it. I saw him move back and punch the wall, a sickening crunch of plaster and drywall that was followed by a husky roar of rage.
I walked out, my heart hammering against my ribs, and saw that Cole was back at the desk, looking up from his phone with a bored expression.
"What's cooking in there?" he asked, nodding towards the closed door.
"Uhm, what?" I asked, my mind still reeling.
"Did something break?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "What?" I asked nervously.
"The loud bang? Didn't you hear the bang?" he pressed.
"I have to go," I said, not waiting for another word. I practically ran for the elevator, desperate to get away from the sound of Damien's anger and the questions I couldn't answer.
That evening, the silence of my apartment was a fucking weight. After the shitshow with Damien, all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and never come out. But I had a date. A date. The word felt foreign and wrong on my tongue. I took a long, hot shower, letting the water beat against my skin, trying to wash away the memory of Damien's furious face and the sickening crack of his fist hitting the wall. It didn't work.
I stood in front of my closet, my heart an aching organ in my chest. I needed armour. I pulled out a simple black short dress, that stopping just above my knee. It was the kind of dress that hugged my curves, a silent "fuck you" to the world and to the two men who had shattered it.
I threw on a denim jacket to soften the look, and some black high-heeled boots that made me feel powerful, taller than my five-foot self. I let my hair down, the dark waves falling around my shoulders, and did some light makeup, just enough to hide the fact that I felt like I was dying inside.
"So, basically, you're in a band and also you are a gym trainer," I said, trying to sound casual and interested as we made small talk. "And that's why you didn't want to work with your father?" We were seated across from each other at a ridiculously expensive-looking restaurant, all low lighting, crisp white tablecloths, and the distant clinking of cutlery. It was the kind of place the Lancaster twins would have taken me, and the thought sent a pang through my chest.
"I thought this was a meeting of pleasure," he said, leaning forward with a wink that was probably designed to make panties drop everywhere. "We can't talk business here."
"Yes, but it's not business if you're not part of the company, is it?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Touché," he said.
"Anyway, what's the name of your band? Are you a rockstar or something?" I asked, taking a sip of my water.
He chuckled again, shaking his head. "Wouldn't you like to know," he said with another infuriatingly smooth wink.
"Actually, I'd rather not say," he continued, his tone turning serious, his eyes locking onto mine. "I can't risk ruining my chances with you. What if you google us in the bathroom, decide I'm lame, and I lose my chance at kissing you tonight?"
The words, delivered with such confident, playful sincerity, caught me completely off guard. I felt a hot blush creep up my neck, flooding my cheeks. Fuck me. For a second, my mind went blissfully, terrifyingly blank.
"Uhm, where have you gone to school?" I said, the question tumbling out in a desperate bid to change the topic. Anything to get the fucking spotlight off me and my non-existent love life.
"Wow, that wasn't random at all," he said, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. We both laughed, and the sound was easy, natural. Being at dinner with him and chatting away, flirting smoothly, made me forget who he was. For a few glorious hours, the weight on my shoulders lifted.
He was the son of that sick, twisted old man who had made my skin crawl, but he was so, so different. His personality, his easy-going demeanor, the genuine warmth in his eyes – it all made me feel at ease, a feeling I hadn't experienced in what felt like a fucking lifetime.
After dinner, his driver dropped us off, and he walked me to my door, the cool night air a welcome shock to my system. The silence in the hallway was thick with unspoken possibilities.
"Thank you, Owen," I said, my voice a little too breathless. "I had a nice time." As soon as the words left my mouth, he leaned in, his movements confident and smooth, and claimed my lips in a kiss.
It was a nice kiss. A good kiss, even. But it wasn't their kiss. It didn't have the desperate, possessive fire that could consume me whole. It was... theirs. And in that moment, it felt utterly wrong.
I pulled back hesitantly, putting a hand on his chest to create some space. "I had a good time tonight," I said, my voice firm but gentle, "but that's not what I'm looking for right now. I'm sorry." I didn't wait for a reply. I just turned, unlocked my door, and went inside, closing it firmly behind me, shutting him out and locking myself in with the familiar, aching loneliness.