Chapter Six: Rules and Regrets
539 Words
Three days.
Not a call.
Not a text.
Not a note.
Alexander Wolfe, master of control, had vanished into silence.
And Isabelle?
She hated how much she noticed.
She sat in the penthouse kitchen in his shirt—because it was clean, not because it still smelled like him—and stared at the untouched cup of tea growing cold in her hands.
The silence was too loud.
The contract was still on the counter. Clause 12: "No interference with outside personal friendships unless reputational risk is involved."
She almost laughed.
Clause 13: "No physical intimacy beyond publicly acceptable behavior unless both parties agree."
Well. Too late for that.
He returned on the fourth night.
Late.
Quiet.
Like a storm creeping in under the door.
She was curled on the sofa, TV on mute, pretending to read.
He paused at the entrance. Looked at her. Didn’t speak.
She stood.
“So, you just disappear now?”
He didn’t answer right away. Loosened his tie. Rolled his sleeves.
“Thought I’d give you space.”
“From what? Your jealousy? Or your guilt?”
He stepped closer. “You think I feel guilty?”
“I think you feel something. And that terrifies you.”
His jaw flexed. “This is a business arrangement.”
She walked past him, then turned. “Then stop kissing me like it’s personal.”
“I didn’t plan that.”
“Exactly the problem.”
He walked to the bar. Poured scotch. Didn’t drink it.
“I don’t do messy,” he said finally.
“Too late,” she whispered.
Silence.
“I’m not Veronica,” she added, quieter now. “You don’t get to punish me for what she did.”
That made him look up.
Sharp.
Angry.
“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
Another long pause.
Then he slammed the glass down. “She cheated. Took half the company’s secrets with her. And married my rival.”
Isabelle froze.
He stared out the window, voice hard. “You think I don’t feel? I feel everything. That’s why I bury it.”
She stepped closer, cautiously. “I’m not her.”
“No,” he said. “You’re worse.”
She recoiled. “Excuse me?”
“You make me want things,” he said, eyes locking onto hers. “Things I swore I’d never want again.”
She didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
Then—
She crossed the room.
Took his face in her hands.
And kissed him.
Soft at first. Then deeper. Hotter. Desperate.
This wasn’t a show. This was want.
They moved like magnets. Like people falling off cliffs. Her shirt gone. His belt unbuckled.
Then—
She stopped.
Pulled away.
Eyes wide. Breath ragged.
“This isn’t who I am,” she whispered.
He was silent.
Then said, “But it’s who I want you to be.”
She stepped back like slapped.
“You don’t want me, Alexander,” she said. “You want someone you can own.”
And then she was gone—bedroom door slamming shut behind her.
He didn’t follow.
But he stared at that door like it was a war he was already losing.
- Writer
