Between Two Brothers

CHAPTER 5.

ISLA'S POV

I stood up slowly, the earlier humiliation fueling my own fire. “Working, Julian. Something I desperately needed to do.”

He crossed the distance in three long strides, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward a quieter corner near the massive windows overlooking London’s skyline. “I told you I’d take care of you. That I’d protect you from whatever danger Dare represents. You didn’t need to come crawling to him!”

“Protect me?” I laughed bitterly, wrenching my arm free. “If you really wanted to help me, Julian, you would have done all that you could to stop Victor from laying me off - instead of dangling security like a prize while I stressed over our bills. All I got were vague warnings and empty promises. You wanted me dependent. Weak and easy to control.”

His jaw clenched, a flash of something dark crossing his features—anger, yes, but also panic. “You don’t understand the full picture. Dare isn’t who you think he is. He’ll destroy you.”

“And what about you?” I shot back, my voice rising despite myself. “You proposed last night while knowing he was back. You pushed when I was at my lowest. Was it love, Julian? Or was it about beating Dare at his own game? Because right now, it feels like I’m just another pawn between you two.”

Julian’s hand shot out, cupping my face with a forced gentleness that felt anything but comforting. “I’ve always wanted you, Isla. From the beginning. Don’t let his return twist what we have.”

I stepped back, my heart racing. I tried to see past his mask, but it felt too calculated. "Maybe it is already twisted."

Before he could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frustration etching deeper lines on his face. “This conversation isn’t over. We’ll talk tonight.”

He turned and left, his shoulders rigid with tension.

I sank back into my chair, the city sprawling beneath me like a kingdom I’d never belong to. The files blurred in front of me as conflicting emotions warred inside—Dare’s icy threats, Serena’s mockery, Julian’s possessive desperation.

My phone vibrated silently on the desk. A new message from the unknown number appeared.

Unknown: Careful. Both of them are playing a long game.

My blood ran cold.

I looked up toward Dare’s closed office door, where low voices murmured behind it. Then back at my phone, the message burning in my palm like evidence of a war I’d just stepped into the middle of.

Dare wanted revenge.

Julian wanted control.

And I was caught between two Blackthorne men who would burn everything down to win.

The office door clicked. Heavy footsteps approached. I quickly deleted the message, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Dare emerged from his suite, his eyes immediately finding mine with that same predatory intensity.

“Harlow. My office. Now.”

His tone left no room for argument.

As I stood, my heart hammering, I caught Serena watching me from the doorway with a triumphant smirk. Whatever game they were all playing, the rules had just changed. And I had a terrible feeling the next move would destroy one of us.

The heavy oak door to Dare’s office clicked shut behind me with the finality of a prison cell. My heels sank into the plush charcoal carpet, muffling my steps as if the room itself wanted to silence me. I stood there, clutching the tablet Serena had shoved into my hands outside, and took in the space that screamed Darian Blackthorne.

It was all him—cold, precise, and intimidating. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a sweeping view of London’s skyline, the city reduced to glittering toys beneath us. A massive black desk dominated the center, its surface reflecting the recessed lighting like a dark mirror. No personal photos, no clutter; just a sleek monitor, a single Montblanc pen aligned perfectly with the edge, and a leather chair that looked more like a throne. The air felt expensive—crisp, cool, and laced with the faint trace of his cedar cologne.

Dare didn’t look up.

He sat behind the desk, scrolling through his screen, the blue light casting sharp shadows across the hard planes of his face. The silence stretched, deliberate and heavy, pressing down on my shoulders until I had to fight the urge to clear my throat. He wanted me uncomfortable. He wanted me to wait.

Two full minutes passed before he finally leaned back, dark eyes lifting to meet mine. There was no warmth, no recognition of the boy who used to hold me in the rain by the greenhouse. This was the man who had walked away and returned as something sharper, crueler.

“Sit,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

I lowered myself into the chair opposite him, the leather cool against my skin. My borrowed blazer felt even cheaper here. I placed the tablet on the edge of his desk like an offering.

Dare picked up a single sheet of paper—my résumé—and scanned it with a faint curl of his lips. He tossed the paper back across the desk like it offended him. “Impressive. The maid’s daughter really climbed the ranks.”

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I kept my chin high. “I worked for everything I have. Some of us didn’t have a family empire handed to us.”

He steepled his fingers, studying me with clinical detachment. “And yet here you are. Desperate enough to walk through my doors after swearing you’d rather starve. Tell me, Isla—how does desperation taste?”

I gripped the arms of the chair until my knuckles whitened. “Like ash. But I’ll swallow it if it means my mother doesn’t have to choose between medicine and rent.”

Something flickered in his eyes—too fast to name—before the ice returned. He slid the tablet toward me. “Your duties. Study them. Memorize them. Failure is not an option.”

I opened the calendar app, and my stomach dropped.

It was filled with back-to-back meetings scheduled across opposite ends of London, some overlapping by thirty minutes. A 7 a.m. breakfast briefing in Canary Wharf was followed immediately by a 7:45 board presentation here at headquarters, travel times completely ignored. Notes were attached with entirely contradictory instructions: Confirm the Tokyo merger terms right next to Cancel all Asia dealings. Personal errands were listed as urgent—dry cleaning from a shop in Mayfair, a specific bottle of whiskey from a private cellar in Knightsbridge, and handwritten letters that needed perfect calligraphy replication.

“This is impossible,” I whispered.

Dare’s smirk was razor-sharp. “For most people. But you always liked to prove people wrong, didn’t you? Or was that just another lie?”

I looked up, anger cutting through the humiliation. “This isn’t a job, Dare. It’s sabotage. You want me to fail so you can watch me crawl out of here.”

He rose slowly, rounding the desk like a predator. The closer he got, the harder it became to breathe. He stopped inches away, towering over me, close enough that I could see the faint scar above his left eyebrow—the one I’d kissed the night he promised me forever.

“You always underestimated what I’m capable of,” he murmured, his voice velvet over steel. “Six years ago, I thought you were the one person who saw me. Not the heir. Not the name. Just me. Then you moved on so easily. Julian’s bed must have been very comforting.”

“I didn’t—” My voice cracked. “You disappeared into total silence! What was I supposed to do?”

His hand came down on the back of my chair, caging me without touching. “You were supposed to believe in us. Instead, you let him fill your head with poison.”

The door to the office burst open without a knock.

Julian stormed in, his eyes blazing as they landed on us—Dare leaning over me, me rigid in the chair. “Get your hands off her, Dare.”

Dare straightened but didn’t move away. “This is a private meeting, cousin. Employees don’t get visitors. Especially not ones who think they own what’s mine.”