The war room falls silent the moment Damian steps inside.
Isabella is already there standing at the head of the long steel table, maps spread in front of her, lieutenants waiting for orders. Her posture is straight, commanding, queenly. She doesn't look at the door when it opens. She doesn't even flinch.
But every man in the room does.
Some gasp.
Some freeze.
A few drop to their knees.
Damian Moretti has returned.
Thinner. Sharper. Haunted.
A man carved by fire and pain but still a king.
Luca stands at his right, jaw set, ready to intervene if either of them explodes. Sophia grips Isabella's shoulder like she's bracing for an earthquake.
Damian's eyes don't scan the room.
They lock straight on Isabella.
And her hand tightens on the edge of the table the only sign of how violently her heart is beating.
He steps forward slowly, like approaching a wild storm that might either kiss him or kill him.
"Isabella," he breathes.
