Isabelle’s POV
There was something surreal about sitting across from Damion again.
Not in a courtroom. Not in a hallway filled with tension. Not even at a gala where we played polite for the crowd.
Just us.
A table between us, a half-filled glass of sparkling water in front of me, and years of silence pressing on both our shoulders.
He didn’t fidget.
Didn’t lean in, or try to fill the space with grand apologies or careless charm.
He just waited.
Like he’d finally learned that presence, not performance, was what mattered.
And maybe that’s what kept me in the seat.
Because the man across from me wasn’t the one who handed me divorce papers and walked away.
He was older now. A little more hollow around the eyes. A little slower in his movements. But steadier.
Not broken.
But chang
