The Storm

Before Damien could respond, the power flickered.

The overhead lights dimmed, then surged brighter, casting long, exaggerated shadows over their faces. Thunder cracked across the sky, loud enough to rattle the windows.

Damien’s gaze lifted toward the floor-to-ceiling glass, brows narrowing. “Storm’s getting worse.”

Ellie glanced at her phone. “It’s supposed to pass by midnight. But you know how this city gets when it rains… Everything shuts down.”

“Except him,” Isabella muttered under her breath.

Damien’s eyes snapped to hers, amused. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” she said, picking up her fork.

He leaned forward, voice dropping an octave. “You’re not afraid of storms, are you, little dove?”

Isabella bristled. “Of course not.”

“Good,” Ellie chimed in, pouring herself a glass of red wine. “Because this one might keep us indoors for a while.”

There was something loaded in the way she said it. Something knowing.

Isabella’s appetite faltered. Trapped in a mansion with Damien Voss, his sister and his crazy ex during a thunderstorm wasn’t exactly her idea of freedom.

The air between them still crackled from the kiss they hadn’t talked about. The one she couldn’t forget.

Damien resumed eating, calm and calculated as always. But his eyes lingered on her every time she reached for her wine. He was watching her closely—the way a wolf watches its prey grow comfortable by the fire.

And just as Isabella reached for her glass again—

Click.

The door opened.

Isabella stiffened. Damien’s brows drew low. Ellie didn’t even turn her head at first. She just sighed.

And there she was. Again.

Cleo.

Backlit by the hallway lights like a storm resurrected in heels. She had changed into something dry with a scowl on her face. But, she seemed oddly composed. Her spine straight, her chin high, and her lips curled into a wicked smile.

“Forgot something,” she said sweetly, stepping into the dining room as if summoned. “A seat at the table.”

Everyone stared.

Ellie blinked. “You forgot… a seat?”

Cleo ignored her, strutting in with each platter of her feet against the floor. “I’m starving. Damien was supposed to take me to dinner. Instead, I was left out in a damn monsoon while you played house with your little project over here. But, I’ll forgive you this time.”

Isabella’s fork froze mid-air.

Damien didn’t speak. His jaw clenched, his gaze ice cold.

Cleo dragged out a chair with a screech and flopped down, glaring at Ellie. “I assume you still know how to set an extra plate, darling?”

Ellie stood up slowly, never breaking eye contact, but Isabella beat her to it. “Oh, I absolutely do.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

Cleo glanced at Damien. “You weren’t even going to check on me? After everything?”

He didn’t reply.

Isabella returned. Not with a plate. But with a washing bowl.

She set it on the floor beside the table, as dainty as a server at a five-star restaurant. “There you go. Bon appétit.”

Cleo’s face flushed red. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Ellie leaned across the table, voice syrupy. “I heard bitches eat on the floor.”

Damien choked on his drink. Isabella coughed into her napkin.

Cleo forced a brittle laugh. “Cute. Really. But you should be thanking me. I made Damien. Before me, he was just a cold brute with no taste.”

“Oh?” Ellie said, eyes wide. “And after you?”

“He became a man with standards,” Cleo snapped. “Clearly, they've dropped again.”

Ellie tapped her chin. “You’re right. He used to like empty-headed women who inhaled perfume and survived on designer sugar daddies.”

She smiled. “Now he likes women with brains. Sorry you couldn’t compete.”

Cleo’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again—like a fish flung onto a dock.

“You’re unbelievable. No wonder your husband uses you as a punching bag.”

Damien slammed his hand on the desk. “Don’t you even think about disrespecting…”

But Cleo cut him off. “You want to lecture me now? Your bratty sister needs to know her place around me,” she spat.

“I know my place, klepto,” Ellie said dramatically. “It’s hard being this fabulous without someone trying to put their hands on me.”

Finally, Damien rose slowly from his chair, wiping his mouth with calculated calm. “Cleo. Leave.”

“No.”

“Now.”

“I have every right—”

“You don’t,” Isabella cut in, surprising everyone—even herself.

Cleo’s head snapped toward her. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t,” Isabella repeated, voice calm but steel-laced. “You weren’t invited. You weren’t wanted. And you sure as hell aren’t staying.”

Damien didn’t say a word.

But the look he gave Isabella…

Pride. Possession. Heat.

Cleo saw it. And it shattered whatever delusions she had left.

“You think she’s better than me?” she hissed.

“She is better than you,” Ellie said flatly. “She’s not even trying. That’s the difference. She just exists—and it’s already more than you’ve ever been.”

Cleo screeched. “Damien, if you don’t throw her out, I will!”

“Go ahead,” Damien said, sitting again. He took a long sip of wine. “Try it.”

Cleo glared. At all of them.

Then she flipped her hair, turned, and stormed out.

No door slam this time.

Just silence.

The kind that follows defeat.

As the door clicked shut, Ellie raised her glass.

“To trash taking itself out.”

Isabella grinned. Damien shook his head, letting out a dark chuckle.

The storm outside was still roaring.

But the storm inside had just made its exit.

Ellie stood and stretched. “Well… I’ve had my fill of drama for the evening. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

She shot them both a pointed look and walked off.

Leaving them.

Alone.

Again.

Damien leaned back in his chair, stretching slowly. He knew his sister was hurt by what Cleo said and needed time alone.

The firelight caught the lines of his body through the shirt as he turned to Isabella.

“I’ll show you something.”

Isabella blinked. “Now?”

He stood, extended his hand. “Come on.”

She hesitated. But her fingers slid into his.

He led her down a corridor she hadn’t seen before—past glass cases of rare books and museum-worthy art. The hallway opened into a library that looked like it belonged in a gothic dream. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. A stone hearth crackling with fire. The scent of pinewood and ink.

“I come here when I need to think,” he said.

She stepped in, letting the quiet settle over her. “It’s… beautiful.”

He watched her trail her fingers along the spines of books.

“You read all of these?” she asked.

He nodded. “Looking for something.”

“Answers?”

“Or stories where the monster wins.”

She turned to him. “You think you’re the monster?”

“I know I am.”

Silence.

Then softly—“Monsters don’t make pasta and build libraries.”

Damien’s lips twitched. “They do… when they want to keep their prey comfortable.”

Her breath caught.

He stepped closer. “You think I don’t see what’s happening between us?”

“There’s nothing.”

“Liar.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face.

“I kiss you, and you melt,” he whispered. “I touch you, and your whole body listens. You say that you hate me, Isabella. But your body hasn’t learned the script yet.”

“Stop,” she breathed.

But she didn’t move.

His voice dropped, a breath against her lips. “Tell me to stop… and mean it.”

She looked up, trembling.

And just when he leaned in—

She stepped back.

“Did you just call me Isabella?”