Isabella POV
I stood in front of my bedroom mirror at seven-thirty, wearing nothing but black lace lingerie and seven years of accumulated heartbreak, trying to decide how to dress for dinner with the man who was systematically destroying my life.
Wear something that reminds me why I used to think you were worth destroying my life for.
Damien's words echoed in my head as I stared at the three dresses laid out on my bed, each one carefully chosen for a different kind of warfare. The question was: what message did I want to send?
The navy Armani was professional, understated, the kind of thing I'd wear to a board meeting with hostile investors. It said I was here for business, that I wasn't going to be swayed by whatever psychological games he had planned.
The crimson Valentino was pure seduction, silk that clung to every curve, a neckline that promised sin, the kind of dress that made men forget their own names. It would remind him exactly what he'd lost when my father destroyed him, exactly what he was trying to claim back through corporate conquest.
The black Tom Ford was something else entirely, elegant but dangerous, sophisticated with an edge that suggested I was playing by new rules. It was the kind of dress a woman wore when she was done being a victim and ready to become a predator herself.
I reached for the black dress.
Twenty minutes later, I stood in front of the mirror again, and barely recognized the woman staring back at me. The dress fit like it had been sculpted to my body, the silk jersey fabric skimming my curves without being obvious about it. The neckline was modest but the back was completely open, revealing smooth skin from my shoulders to the base of my spine. I'd swept my hair into a low chignon that emphasized the elegant line of my neck, and my makeup was subtle but for the deep red lipstick that made my mouth look like a weapon.
I looked like Isabella Sterling, heiress and CEO. But I also looked like a woman who was done playing defense.
My phone buzzed with a text from Marcus: "Please tell me you're not really doing this."
I typed back: "I'm really doing this."
His response was immediate: "This is insane. Cross is dangerous, Isabella. What if, "
I turned off my phone before I could read the rest. Marcus was right, this was insane. Meeting Damien alone, in public, when emotions were running this high was the kind of decision that could destroy what was left of my life.
But staying away wasn't an option either. Not when I could still feel the phantom pressure of his body against mine from yesterday's confrontation. Not when I knew that underneath all his carefully controlled rage was the boy who'd once looked at me like I was his entire world.
Don't romanticize this, Isabella. He's not that boy anymore.
The thought should have been sobering. Instead, it sent a thrill of something that felt suspiciously like anticipation through my veins. Because the man Damien had become, powerful, dangerous, utterly ruthless, was exactly the kind of man who could handle a woman like me. The kind of man who wouldn't be intimidated by my sharp tongue or my sharper mind.
The kind of man who might actually be worth the risk.
Chez Laurent was one of the city's most exclusive restaurants, the kind of place where reservations were impossible to get and paparazzi lurked outside hoping to catch celebrities in compromising positions. It was also where my father had taken me for my eighteenth birthday, where Damien had once worked as a server to pay his way through community college before Dad had discovered his brilliance.
Of course he chose this place. Nothing about tonight is going to be accidental.
The maître d' recognized me immediately, the Sterling name opened doors everywhere in this city, but his expression when he led me to Damien's table suggested that my dinner companion had made quite an impression of his own.
Damien was waiting at a corner table that offered both privacy and a commanding view of the restaurant. He stood when he saw me approaching, and the simple courtesy hit me like a physical blow because it was so reminiscent of the boy I'd known. The boy who'd been raised in foster homes but had somehow absorbed perfect manners, who'd treated me like precious cargo even when we both knew he was the one who was fragile.
But there was nothing fragile about the man watching me navigate between tables with predatory intensity. He was wearing a black suit that probably cost more than most people's cars, his dark hair perfectly styled, his gray eyes tracking my every movement like a hunter who'd finally cornered his prey.
"Isabella," he said when I reached the table, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear it. "You look..."
"Like someone worth destroying your life for?" I suggested, settling into the chair he held for me with as much grace as I could muster.
His smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Exactly like that."
He took his seat across from me, and suddenly the table felt impossibly small. I could smell his cologne, something expensive and masculine that made my pulse skip, could see the way his suit jacket stretched across shoulders that were broader than I remembered.
Focus, Isabella. This is war, not a date.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," I said, trying to project the kind of professional composure that had gotten me through countless board meetings.
"Thank you for accepting my invitation," he replied smoothly. "Though I have to admit, I'm surprised you came alone. No lawyers, no board members, no protection at all."
The word 'protection' sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way he was looking at me, like he was already imagining what it would feel like to have me completely at his mercy.
"I don't need protection from you," I said, meeting his gaze directly.
"No?" He leaned back in his chair, and the movement emphasized the powerful lines of his body in ways that made my mouth go dry. "Even after what I did to Morrison Construction this morning?"
"Especially after what you did to Morrison Construction this morning." I leaned forward slightly, letting him see that I wasn't intimidated. "Because now I understand exactly what kind of man you've become."
Something flickered in his eyes, surprise, maybe, or approval. "And what kind of man is that?"
"The kind who destroys innocent people to prove a point. The kind who uses other people's livelihoods as weapons in your personal war." I paused, letting the words sink in. "The kind my father would be proud to call his protégé."
The comparison hit its mark. I saw his jaw clench, saw his hands tighten almost imperceptibly on his wine glass. Good. Let him remember that everything he'd become, every ruthless tactic he'd employed, had been learned at Richard Sterling's feet.
"Careful, bella," he said softly. "Your claws are showing."
"Good. I want you to know I have them."
The waiter appeared to take our order, and for a few minutes we played at being civilized, discussing wine selections and menu options like we were old friends instead of enemies circling each other with drawn knives. But underneath the surface pleasantries, the air between us crackled with tension so thick I could practically taste it.
"So," Damien said once we were alone again, "tell me about the past seven years. What has Isabella Sterling been doing while I've been building my empire?"
The question was casual, but I caught the edge underneath it. He wanted to know if I'd thought about him, if I'd wondered what happened to him, if his disappearance had left any kind of mark on my life.
More than you know, I thought, but kept my expression neutral.
"Business school. Internships. Learning how to run Sterling Industries." I took a sip of wine, grateful for something to do with my hands. "The usual heiress education."
"And personally?"
The word hung between us like a loaded gun. I knew what he was really asking: had there been other men? Had I fallen in love with someone else? Had I moved on from whatever we'd shared when I was eighteen and stupid with first love?
"That's not really any of your business," I said carefully.
"Isn't it?" He leaned forward, close enough that I could see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes. "You were mine once, Isabella. That makes everything about you my business."
Were. Past tense. But the possessive way he said 'mine' suggested he didn't consider our connection quite as finished as his grammar implied.
"I was never yours," I said, though the words felt like lies even as I spoke them. "We were children playing at being adults. What we had... it wasn't real."
The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I'd made a mistake. Something dangerous flashed across Damien's features, hurt and rage and something that looked suspiciously like betrayal.
"Not real," he repeated softly. "Is that what you tell yourself? That the night you gave me your virginity in the back seat of my car was just children playing games?"
Heat flooded my cheeks at the memory, not just of the act itself, but of the tenderness afterward, the way he'd held me like I was made of glass, the promises we'd whispered against each other's skin.
"That's not what I meant, " I started.
"Or maybe you mean the night before I left," he continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "When you cried in my arms and begged me not to go. When you promised to wait for me no matter how long it took."
Stop. The word was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't force it out. Because he was right, what we'd shared had been real, more real than anything I'd experienced before or since. And hearing him acknowledge it, hearing the pain in his voice when he talked about leaving, made something crack open in my chest that I'd been keeping carefully sealed.
"I did wait," I whispered before I could stop myself. "I waited for months. I called, I wrote letters, I even went to your apartment, "
"And found it empty," he finished. "Because your father made sure I disappeared without a trace."
The pain in his voice was raw, unguarded, and suddenly I could see past the expensive suit and the carefully controlled rage to the boy underneath. The boy who'd been abandoned by everyone who was supposed to protect him, who'd finally found a family only to have it ripped away the moment he'd reached for happiness.
"I didn't know," I said desperately. "Damien, I swear to you, I didn't know what he'd done. When you disappeared, I thought... I thought you'd realized I wasn't worth the risk. That someone like you could do better than a spoiled little rich girl who'd never had to fight for anything."
For a moment, something that looked like hope flickered across his features. Then his expression hardened again, the mask sliding back into place.
"And now?" he asked. "What do you think now?"
The question was a trap, but I walked into it anyway.
"Now I think my father was a bastard who destroyed the best thing that ever happened to either of us," I said quietly. "And I think you have every right to hate me for it."
"I don't hate you," he said, and the words hit me like a physical blow. "I hate what you represent. I hate that you grew up in the world I was never supposed to touch. I hate that you're sitting here looking like every fantasy I've had for seven years while defending the legacy that destroyed me."
Every fantasy I've had for seven years.
The admission hung between us like a live wire, dangerous and electrifying. Because if he'd been fantasizing about me, if he'd spent seven years thinking about what we'd lost instead of just planning his revenge...
Maybe there was still something left to save.
"Then stop," I said suddenly. "Stop the attacks, stop trying to destroy Sterling Industries. We can find another way, "
"There is no other way," he cut me off. "Your father made sure of that when he chose to protect his precious legacy over the man who loved his daughter."
Loved. Past tense again, but I caught the slip. Whatever Damien felt for me now, hatred, desire, obsession, t was built on the foundation of love that had never quite died.
"What do you want from me?" I asked desperately. "What would it take for you to walk away?"
He was quiet for a long moment, studying my face like he was memorizing every detail. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft enough that I had to lean forward to hear him.
"I want you to choose," he said simply. "Sterling Industries or me. Your father's legacy or the future we could have built together. The cage he built for you or the freedom I'm offering."
"And if I choose you?"
"Then you walk away from everything. Tonight. You come home with me, and you never look back."
The offer hung between us like a bridge over an abyss, beautiful and terrifying and utterly final. Because I knew that if I took his hand and walked away from Sterling Industries, there would be no going back. The company would collapse, hundreds of people would lose their jobs, and everything three generations of my family had built would crumble into dust.
But I would be free. Free from the suffocating weight of family expectations, free from the toxic legacy that had cost us both so much, free to finally be with the only man who'd ever made me feel alive.
What are you going to choose, Isabella?