The rain outside poured relentlessly, streaking the tall glass windows of the penthouse. The rhythm was hypnotic, a stark contrast to the turmoil in Isabella’s mind. She sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring into the flickering fire. The day’s revelations were still sinking in, and the storm inside her chest seemed to mirror the one outside.
Damien stood near the wet bar, his tall frame silhouetted against the soft glow of the lights. He was pouring a glass of bourbon, his movements precise and unhurried. But she could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw. This wasn’t the calm before the storm—it was the storm itself.
“You’re quiet,” he said finally, his deep voice breaking the silence. He turned to her, his dark eyes searching hers as he cros
