Isla stepped out of the sleek black sedan and stared up at the grand townhouse.
Damian Whitmore's house had always seemed imposing from the outside, but today it felt… alive, like it had been waiting for her.
The valet quickly took her bags, and a uniformed chauffeur stood respectfully by the car, a subtle reminder of the world Damian moved in.
A soft click behind her made her jump.
Damian stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed but relaxed, his hands folded behind him.
Even at forty-five, he had the kind of presence that made her heart stumble.
"Isla," he said, his voice steady yet familiar, a warm hint of amusement in his tone.
"Welcome home."
"Thank you… Mr. Whitmore," Isla replied, dropping her designer bag onto the polished marble floor.
She forced herself to sound composed, though her pulse raced.
He gave a small, knowing smile. "Good to see you. Your room is ready."
She bit her lip. "Thank you."
Isla swallowed hard. Every word he said sent a thrill through her.
Damian had been her father's closest friend for as long as she could remember, and she had grown up around his quiet authority and easy charm.
Just then, her phone buzzed.
Mom.
She picked up quickly.
"Hi, darling! Are you settled in?" Margaret Carrington's voice was warm but clipped with concern.
"Yes, Mom. Damian's… very welcoming," Isla replied, trying to sound casual.
"Good. Remember to eat, keep your room tidy, and call me every evening. I want to know you're safe."
"I will, Mom."
"Damian will take care of you, but I expect you to follow his instructions. Understood?"
"Yes, Mom." She hung up, a strange flutter settling in her chest.
She glanced at Damian, who had been silently watching the exchange. His eyes held a hint of amusement.
"Everything alright?" he asked.
"Perfectly," she said, though her heart betrayed her calm tone.
Damian nodded, then motioned toward the house. "Let me show you your room."
As they walked down the hallway, Isla's eyes wandered over the expansive interior: polished marble floors that gleamed under the soft chandelier light, walls adorned with abstract art and personal photographs, and shelves filled with leather-bound books.
The subtle scent of his signature cologne lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of fresh flowers in a crystal vase.
Every corner spoke of meticulous care and quiet luxury, the kind of wealth that was understated but impossible to miss.
Her pulse quickened.
This is it.
Her chance.
Damian paused outside the door to her room.
"Your space. I'll leave you to unpack. Dinner is in two hours."
"Thank you," she whispered, not moving immediately.
She wanted to memorize the sound of his voice, the way the sunlight caught his profile, everything about him.
"Isla?" He cleared his throat, gently breaking her reverie.
"Yes?"
"Remember our boundaries," he said, his tone firm but familiar.
Damian has always known Isla since she was a child, headstrong and unpredictable.
"Yes, Damian." She said it softly, though her mind was spinning. Boundaries… yes. But that doesn't mean I can't cross them… eventually.
He gave a small nod, his gaze unreadable, and left.
Alone, Isla let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. She set her bag down and approached the window, staring at the city below.
From this height, the streets looked tiny, the lights like scattered diamonds—a reminder of the world Damian ruled effortlessly.
A small, daring smile crept across her face.
This is my chance. And I won't waste it.