Chapter 7
991words
Three days? Four?
Time blurs between paint and canvas.
The Madonna in front of me is almost finished. Her eyes shine with mercy.
But all I feel is exhaustion.
I haven't slept since Nico's call.
Every time I close my eyes, his venomous words echo in my head.
"You think they'll accept a Don's mistress?"
"You think they'll let their precious heir marry a tainted woman?"
I shake my head, trying to banish the thoughts.
The brush trembles in my hand.
An email from my biggest client. The contract has been terminated.
Then a call from my father. His voice shakes as he tells me the company accounts are frozen.
Suddenly, the room spins.
I reach for the workbench, but my legs give out. I collapse into the chair.
My forehead is burning. My vision blurs.
I have a fever.
My phone rings and rings, but I don't have the strength to answer.
The world feels so far away.
Through the haze, I hear a knock.
"Isabella?"
Julian's voice.
I try to answer, but my throat is raw. No sound comes out.
The knocking gets more urgent.
"Damn it," I hear him swear.
Then, the sharp crack of the lock giving way.
"Isabella!"
He comes into view. His face is tight with worry.
He rushes to my side, his hand on my forehead.
"God, you're burning up."
His hand is cool. Comforting.
I lean into his touch without thinking.
"How long since you've eaten?" he asks, but I can't answer.
Julian scoops me into his arms. I rest my head against his chest.
His heartbeat is steady. It makes me feel safe.
"We're going home," he says softly. "You need to rest."
I want to protest, but my body has already surrendered.
Julian's apartment is warmer than I expected.
Not a cold bachelor pad. It's a home, filled with books and art.
He lays me down on the big bed in his bedroom. Pulls the covers over me.
"I'll make some soup," he says. "Get some rest."
I grab his hand. "Don't go."
The words surprise even me.
When did I start needing him this much?
Julian stops. A strange emotion flickers in his eyes.
"Okay," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I won't go."
The next few hours are a gentle dream.
Julian cools my fever with a damp cloth. Gives me water. Strokes my hair.
Beneath the tenderness, I can feel his coiled anger.
"Why?" I ask, half-asleep.
"Why what?" Julian's voice is soft.
"Why are you so good to me? We've only known each other for a few days."
He's quiet for a moment. "Because he put his hands on what's mine."
I shiver at the possessiveness in his voice.
"Do you know who he is?" I ask. "Do you know what it means to be with me?"
"I know," Julian says, his voice firm. "And I don't care. I only care that he's the reason you have a fever."
"Your family will care."
"That's my problem. Not yours."
I open my eyes. Look at him.
Even in the dim light, his eyes are bright.
"Julian…"
"Sleep," he says, leaning down to kiss my forehead. "When you're better, we'll make him pay. Twice."
The next morning, I feel much better.
Julian is in the kitchen making breakfast. Sunlight streams through the window, catching him in its glow.
"How are you feeling?" He brings me a cup of hot tea.
"Much better." I take the cup. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me." He sits down next to me. "You were talking in your sleep last night."
My heart speeds up. "What did I say?"
"You kept saying 'I'm sorry'." Julian looks into my eyes. "Why are you apologizing?"
I look down, unable to meet his gaze. "Because I dragged you into this mess."
"Isabella, look at me."
I lift my head. Meet his deep, gray-blue eyes.
"You did nothing wrong," he says. "He did. And fixing what's wrong is what I do best."
His words bring tears to my eyes.
Two days later, I'm back in my studio.
The Madonna is finished. Her eyes are full of mercy, as if forgiving all the sins of the world.
I take a picture of the painting.
The glossy varnish reflects the light like a mirror.
I post it to social media. The caption: "Seeing the light."
——
Damien's POV
I stare at the photo on my phone. Zooming in again and again.
"Seeing the light."
A damn word game. She's mocking me.
I zoom in as far as I can. Stare at the blurred reflection.
The silhouette of a man. Handing her something.
The gesture is natural. Intimate. Like two lovers.
My warnings, my attacks… they meant nothing to her.
My hand starts to shake.
Nico enters. "Boss, the report is in."
I don't look up. My eyes are glued to the screen.
"Spit it out."
"Julian Thorne. 35. Harvard Law. Specializes in M&A," Nico reads from the file. "His clients are half of Wall Street. He's never lost a case."
"Weaknesses?"
"Hard to find." Nico sounds frustrated. "He's clean, Boss. No gambling, no women, no bad habits. The only weak spot might be…"
"Might be what?"
"He's serious about Isabella Rossi."
I look up sharply. "What do you mean?"
"Our sources say he forced his way into her studio the other night. Stayed with her all night." Nico pauses. "They say he just… nursed her. Like she was sick."
The news makes me even angrier.
If they'd slept together, I could dismiss it as lust.
But care? Tenderness?
Things I never gave her.
I pick up my glass of whiskey and hurl it against the wall.
Glass shatters. Amber liquid drips down the plaster.
But my eyes are still fixed on the screen. On that damned, gentle reflection.
"Nico!" I roar. "Get her. Bring her to me. Now!"
