Damari finally caught on to what he’d done and let go of her hand. "Sorry."

"No, it’s okay. I gotta get back to work."

Isla’s cheeks flushed bright pink as she hurried off in her heels. It was the first time she’d ever been that flustered on the job.

Damari rubbed his fingertips together slowly, like he could still feel the soft, silky warmth of Isla’s skin under his touch.

An hour later, he stood up and headed for the conference room.

Ambrose was leaning over the table, voice rough and gravelly. Damari glanced down at him. "You can go. Don’t make that mistake again."

"Damari, why are you so protective of that little assistant of yours? Got your eye on her, don’t you?"

Damari didn’t bother explaining, just tossed off a lazy reply. "She’s taken."

"So what if she’s taken? You convince her hard enough, any relationship can go up in smoke."

Ambrose chugged the last of his coffee and stretched out slow, casual. "Hey, by the way—isn’t it kind of tempting? She’s all prim and proper up here at work. Wonder what she’s like behind closed doors, huh?"

Ambrose just shrugged. "You’re gonna make yourself miserable bottling everything up like this. Skip the overtime tonight, come out with us."

After seeing Ambrose out, Damari wandered down the hall for a cigarette, and glanced through the open doorway of the secretaries’ office.

There she was: Isla standing by the printer, sunlight spilling over her. Her tailored work fit fit her like it was made just for her.

Her tiny waist, those long legs, the soft rise and fall of her chest—enough to make any man’s head turn.

Damari’s mind wandered, unbidden, to the thought of Isla in bed with Vicente. What noises would she make?

He caught himself, realizing Ambrose’s stupid comment had gotten under his skin, and shoved those thoughts right out of his head fast.

In this day and age, Isla and Vicente had been together for years. Of course they weren’t waiting for marriage. That kind of thing didn’t happen anymore.

The tight black dress she’d worn last night just proved it.

They were a couple. Intimacy was normal. That was how it worked.

Damari turned to leave just as Isla glanced toward the door. She didn’t see anyone there, but she couldn’t shake the feeling—like someone had been watching her. Had she just imagined it?

Her phone buzzed with a text just as she pulled the printed documents off the tray. It was a deposit alert.

Her eyes locked on the $200,000. The papers slipped right out of her hands and hit the floor with a loud thud.

Suddenly every pair of eyes in the room was on her. Madison spoke up first. "Everything okay?"

Isla, always so cool and collected, masked her shock in a heartbeat. "Nothing. I’m fine."

She walked back to her desk, still reeling over the unexpected money, when Rayna leaned in, voice bright with curiosity. "How’d it go last night? That dress I picked out for you could charm the pants off an angel."

Isla answered steady as anything. "Not great. We broke up."

Rayna’s face went completely slack with disbelief. "What? You broke up? After all these years? You just walked away like that?"

"I did. He cheated," Isla said, not offering anything else before she headed for the CEO’s office, leaving Rayna stunned in her wake.

Isla knocked on the door. She went in and out of this office a dozen times a day normally, but today this was only the second time—and it felt weird, awkward even.

She pushed the door open and found Damari on a call. She usually avoided interrupting moments like this, scared she’d overhear something confidential.

She set the documents down and was already turning to leave when his hand wrapped around her wrist, halting her in place.

Since last night, they’d touched way more than they ever had before. It felt wrong, too much.

Isla didn’t dare daydream about being Mrs. Evans. If she had to label what they had, it was nothing more than a business arrangement.

Even with his phone pressed to his ear, his sharp, focused gaze never left her.

This man was normally glued to his work, barely glanced at anyone else. This sudden shift left her completely off-balance.

Isla’s eyes drifted to the small red birthmark peeking out above the collar of his white dress shirt.

She realized she was staring, and it was rude. She looked away fast.

To Damari, Isla standing there with her head bowed looked just like an obedient kid waiting her turn in line. Cute.

He finally ended the call. "Is there something you wanted to say?"

Isla’s voice was soft, quiet. "Mr. Evans, did you mishear me? Last night I said you only needed to send $30,000. I just got a transfer for $200,000."

He answered like it was no big deal. "Thirty thousand only covers the surgery and the hospital bill. Even if the operation goes well, there’s post-op meds and physical therapy to pay for."

"A hundred thousand is more than enough. I’ll transfer the rest back right away."

"Isla, that $200,000 isn’t for your brother’s treatment."

Her heart stopped for a beat. "Mr. Evans, I don’t understand."

"Let me put it another way. This $200,000 is your monthly allowance—from a husband to his wife. Spend it however you want."

"H-husband…" Isla almost bit her own tongue, she was that shocked.

He emphasized the word slow, like he wanted to make sure she got it. "Yes. Husband. Or partner, spouse—whatever you prefer."

This wasn’t going anything like she’d planned.

Weren’t they only supposed to have a contractual marriage? Right. The contract.

Isla reminded him gentle, quiet. "Mr. Evans, we haven’t signed any agreement yet."

"No need for one. If you have any demands, just tell me. We can work it out."

This whole arrangement was Damari’s idea in the first place. Her only request was money to save her brother’s life. That was it.

Seeing how confused she was, Damari pressed the point. "You can tell me what you expect from me. What days I need to come home, how much I give you each month, how many nights a week we… share a bed."

Isla slammed her palm over his mouth fast, cutting him off. "Mr. Evans, don’t say another word."

He glanced at her flushed cheeks, amused. How could someone who’d dated a man for years still blush just from hearing the words share a bed?

His warm breath fanned her fingers, sending a tiny, tingling jolt up her arm. She yanked her hand away like she’d been burned.

Isla could feel something was off. She’d always thought this was just mutual need—she’d satisfy his grandfather’s last wish, he’d pay for her brother’s surgery. That was all.

Beyond that, they wouldn’t have anything to do with each other. But he was talking like they were actually a real married couple.

She met his gaze, and her ears burned hot. "I don’t need that much money, I…"

He cut her right off. "Do whatever you want with it. Save it, donate it, I don’t care—it’s your freedom to do as you like. Transferring money to you every month is my freedom."

Isla’s brain was still spinning trying to process all this when she asked, "Then what do I have to do for it?"

"I’ll let you know when the time comes."

Isla nodded, already planning to save the money and pay him back every cent once the arrangement ended.

"Tonight I have to go visit my parents. If we were going to see your grandfather, we’ll have to reschedule," she told him seriously, like she was reporting any other work task.

He let go of her wrist. "That’s fine."

"Mr. Evans, I won’t disturb you any longer."

Isla hurried out. Even though he’d let go, the spot on her wrist where his hand had been was still burning—like someone had lit a tiny flame there that spread all the way to her heart.

Glancing at the balance on her bank app, the heavy weight that had been sitting in her chest for months finally lifted.

She didn’t want to go home, but tonight was the regular family dinner, and Mack would be there. She couldn’t wait to tell her brother the good news.

After the surgery, he’d be healthy again. He’d get to start a whole new life.

When Isla knocked and walked into the living room, she found Vicente sitting there, in his crisp business suit. Her face dropped instantly.

Isla Turner saw exactly what he was playing at, and cut off every last way he could reach her. So he tracked down her childhood home, went and put their relationship out in the open, and that’s how she ended up getting summoned home for dinner by her mom.

Her mom, who was usually on her case about everything, greeted her with a smile that didn’t feel right, and said, "There you are. Why didn’t you tell us sooner you were dating Vicente?"

Mack, who was always pale and worn down from his illness, lit up with excitement the second she walked through the door. He hurried over to her, bubbling, "Sis, your fiancé’s here!"

Only he knew how crazy Isla was about Vicente Wood, and he was genuinely happy for her—he thought they’d finally made it work for good.

Vicente was wearing a crisp white suit that oozed old-money charm, and he stepped forward to take the pasta dish she’d carried from her place. "Isla, let me take that for you."

But behind that soft, gentlemanly act—what other agenda was he hiding?

Isla set the pasta down on the entryway table, ignoring the thrilled grins all around her. Emotional manipulation didn’t work on her, not anymore. She kept her voice even when she spoke: "Mom, it’s true Vicente and I dated. But we broke up last night."

Her mom blinked in surprise for half a second, then brushed it off: "Young couples fight all the time. Vicente drove all the way out here to make this right. Stop being stubborn and go get ready for dinner."

"Vicente’s our guest, Isla. Have some respect, don’t embarrass this family," her father added, sharp as a tack.

Isla’s eyes swept the living room: stacks of fancy gourmet chocolate, top-shelf whiskey, hand-rolled cigars, imported coffee. Her little brother Legacy was glued to his game console, didn’t even glance up to say hi. And her mom—who never wore jewelry that suited her plain style—had a brand new diamond necklace glinting like it was shouting for attention.

It was obvious. Her whole family had already been bought off by Vicente.

The sad thing was, Isla was the kind of person who’d rather hit a brick wall than back down. Once she decided to walk away, she never turned back.

She looked at Mack: "Take good care of Grandma. Mom, Dad, I’ve got a deadline at the office. I’m leaving."

She didn’t look over her shoulder as she walked out, but she heard Vicente’s smooth voice behind her: "Mr. and Mrs. Turner, please don’t be upset. It’s my fault Isla got the wrong idea. She’s got every right to be angry. You guys go ahead and enjoy dinner, I’ll go talk to her."

That good looks, the fancy family background, the calm, collected demeanor—all the things that had made Vicente seem absolutely perfect to Isla once upon a time—had all crumbled to ash after what went down last night.

Just as the elevator doors were sliding shut, a slim hand jammed between them to stop them. When she looked up, she was face to face with his handsome face, stretched into that familiar gentle smile. "Isla, give me five minutes to explain this to you face to face."

He stepped into the elevator with her, and the doors slid closed behind him. Even though he kept that soft, polite act up, his tall frame filled the small car, and it felt like the air was pressing in on her.

"Isla, Rhea Rodriguez is my mentor’s daughter. She’s young, and she’s not healthy, so everyone at the studio looks out for her. I swear to you, I’ve only ever thought of her as a little sister. If there was actually anything between us, I would’ve broken up with you already. Why would I be here begging you to forgive me if that wasn’t true?"

Isla held his gaze, unblinking. "Vicente, tons of guys have hit on me since we got together. I never took any of them to Disneyland, never went beach camping with them alone, never rented out a whole private theater for one of them. I definitely never went on a trip out of the country with one."

"Isla, my sister was with us at Disneyland! The camping was a whole studio group trip! And the overseas thing wasn’t even a vacation—I was there for a work conference, and she just happened to be in the same city, we only got dinner together!"

"So you expect me to buy that all of this is just a coincidence?"

Vicente rubbed a hand over his forehead, a flicker of irritation creeping into his tone. "I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the truth."

Isla’s stare stayed cold as ice. "Vicente, you say other people were there, but why is it that every single one of her social media posts only has you in the frame? She knew it was my birthday, and you were with me, and she still texted you begging you to come over. Are all those things just coincidences too? Can’t you see what that girl’s up to? She has a crush on you."

"Yeah, she likes me, but to me she’s just a sick little kid. She’s not a threat to us."

Isla couldn’t hold back the sharp, bitter laugh that burst out of her. "You let a girl who’s got feelings for you hang all over you. If she really wasn’t a threat, you never would’ve hidden her from me in the first place."

"Vicente, all I ever wanted was real love. The tiramisu you baked me, the birthday present you picked out for me—every single memory we have now has that woman’s fingerprints all over it. It makes me sick."

Isla pulled the birthday necklace he’d given her out of her bag and held it out to him. "Here. Take it back. From now on, we go our separate ways."

The elevator doors slid open, and she was just about to step out when Vicente wrapped his arms around her from behind. "Please, Isla, don’t do this. I only love you. Don’t let this ruin everything we built. I’m exhausted, I’ve been running around all day—"

Isla knew how swamped he was, knew he hadn’t slept a wink last night chasing after her. But even after all that, he still didn’t get what he did wrong.

He wasn’t even apologizing. He just thought she was being dramatic.

She’d once convinced herself he was different from all those other arrogant, selfish men out there. But now she saw it—he was exactly the same as all the rest.

She pried his fingers off her waist, one by one, slow and deliberate. "I’m not throwing a tantrum."

The doors opened again, and she walked out without a single glance back, only pausing for half a second at the lobby exit. "It wasn’t her that ruined us, Vicente. It was you."

"Let’s end this like adults."

She left him standing there, her silhouette cool and unyielding—and for a second, it blurred into an old high school memory: someone had put thumbtacks in her sneakers, she’d run down the hallway bleeding through her white socks, Vicente had offered to walk her to the nurse, and she’d turned him down, limping away on her own, her ponytail swinging sharp against her back. Past and present melted together, right there in front of him.

In that split second, Vicente felt a sharp twist in his chest—like he could already feel her slipping away.

But the feeling was gone just as fast as it came, and he huffed a quiet laugh. He’d worked his ass off to win Isla’s heart. They’d survived years of long distance, for god’s sake. How could some tiny little stupid fight break them apart?

Her cold shoulder was just proof she loved him, right? She was just jealous of Rhea.

Vicente didn’t take her breakup talk seriously at all. If anything, he thought it was kind of cute. He was finally getting to see her jealous side, after all this time.

He was just about to head out after her when his phone rang. He saw the name on the screen, frowned, but answered anyway.

A sweet, breathy voice came through the line: "Vicente, I just got into the city."

"I think I got lost, though… can you come pick me up?"

Vicente’s frown deepened. "Send me your location and stay where you are. I’ll be right there."

Isla had already hailed a cab on the side of the road, and she watched as Vicente’s car roared past her, speeding like he was late for something, didn’t even glance her way.

But they were broken up now. Where he was going didn’t matter to her anymore.

She texted her mom to pack up all her old stuff from the house. She’d send a courier over tomorrow to pick it up.

When her ride pulled up to a stop light, Isla spotted Vicente’s Bentley parked off to the side of the road.

She couldn’t help but glance over that way, and she saw a young woman jump straight into Vicente’s arms, grinning like she owned the place.

So that was who he was in such a damn hurry to meet.

Twenty minutes ago, he’d sworn he only loved her. And even after she walked out on him, he didn’t even bother to stay away from Rhea.

Of course that woman was special to him. How could she not be?

Isla looked away from the side mirror, closing her eyes to push the whole mess out of her head.

When she got back to her rented apartment, she headed straight to the kitchen to wash some vegetables, pretending everything was totally normal. While she was chopping, she nicked her finger pretty bad—bright red blood blooming against the pale green of her cucumber.

The sharp pain jerked her back to earth, and she stared at her cut, a dry, ironic smile tugging at her mouth. Everything would pass eventually, right?

She grabbed a band-aid out of the first aid kit, wrapped up her finger, and finished making her salad a minute later.

Even though it tasted like cardboard, she ate every last bite.

After she cleaned up the kitchen, she pulled out her sketchpad.

Isla had always been a natural artist, but her parents never wanted to waste money on art classes, so she’d taught herself everything she knows. Over the years, she’d picked up freelance illustration gigs to help pay for Mack’s medical bills.

Slowly but surely, she’d built up a little following online. Drawing was just how she passed the time, anyway.

By ten o’clock, her phone buzzed. A text from Damari Evans popped up, with a location pin attached.

Isla Turner quickly saved her work and shut her laptop. She’d assumed Madison Walker was swamped with work, so without a second thought, she headed straight for the new club. It was their soft opening night, and the main hall hummed with electricity—top-tier bands, A-list celebrities crammed inside, and suddenly that billion-dollar investment felt like every penny worth it.

Isla never cared for all the noise and chaos, so she headed straight for the fifth floor. Up here, it was nothing like the rowdy vibe downstairs: classy furniture, dead quiet. She knocked politely and pushed into the private suite, only to stop short—this wasn’t Damari Evans and his group. It was Vicente Wood and his people.

The room was still buzzing, everyone yelling over each other, “Cheers! C’mon, one more round!” Vicente laughed, saying, “C’mon, Rhea can’t drink—she’s been under the weather…” His voice died the second his eyes landed on Isla in the doorway. In a heartbeat, every single person in the room was staring right at her.

The one who’d been leading the cheers was Jeremiah Woods, their old high school friend, and he’d been right there through every messy second of her and Vicente’s relationship. When he saw Isla, a flash of awkwardness crossed his face before he quickly recovered. “Oh, hey Isla, c’mon in, grab a seat.”

Isla could feel the room’s energy shift the second she’d walked in uninvited. She suddenly felt like an outsider crashing Vicente’s new life. It wasn’t just Vicente who’d changed—all of his people had too.

Vicente’s face flickered through a dozen emotions before he settled back into that familiar gentle smile he’d always worn. “Isla, you’re here. Let me introduce you, this is—” Isla kept her face blank. “I don’t care who she is. I got the wrong room.”

Jeremiah jumped in right away. “Oh, c’mon Isla, don’t get the wrong idea. We were just messing around, playing a game.”

The woman curled up against Vicente smiled and stepped toward Isla. “You’ve got to be Isla, right? Vic talks about you all the time. I’m so glad I finally got to meet you in person—you’re even prettier than he said. I’m Rhea Rodriguez, like the gem, y’know? R for Rhea, R for rock.”

“I broke up with Vicente. Whoever you are doesn’t matter to me. I’m here to pick someone up, so I’m leaving.”

“Isla, you’re misunderstanding. Vic and I aren’t what you think we are, we’re just—” Rhea reached for Isla’s hand. But Isla hated being touched, especially by the woman who’d broken up her relationship. She flinched back on instinct, and Rhea toppled straight to the floor.

Jeremiah cut in immediately, “Isla, that was totally unnecessary. She was just saying hi, and you pushed her? Did you forget she’s sick?”

Vicente didn’t say much. He just stood up and walked toward her. “Isla, don’t be mad. We were all just having fun.”

Isla didn’t even bother explaining. Before Vicente could get close enough to touch her, she wrenched the door open and bolted out. Right before the door clicked shut, she heard Rhea’s weak voice: “Vic, I don’t feel good…”

By the time she was out in the hallway, Isla could feel her whole body shaking. Her palms were slick with cold sweat. She’d barely eaten anything for dinner, and now her stomach rolled with nausea. The betrayal of Vicente, then even Jeremiah—her old friend—quietly taking Rhea’s side, it crashed over her all at once.

“You good?” A familiar male voice rumbled from behind her. Isla froze, then turned, her voice polite when she spoke. “I’m sorry, Mr. Evans. I got lost and wound up in B-8.”

From where she stood, Damari was all sharp lines in his crisp white dress shirt, no tie, the top two buttons undone. His suit jacket was slung over one arm, softening the usual stern, put-together vibe he carried. His gaze slid from her face straight to the bandage wrapped around her finger.

Before Isla could even say anything else, Damari had caught her hand and tugged it closer to get a better look. “How’d you get hurt?” he asked.

Her whole life, no one—not even her mom, not even Vicente when they were together—had ever noticed a tiny little cut like this. Rhea had grabbed that exact injured hand less than five minutes ago, and Vicente hadn’t said a word. But Damari had spotted this tiny detail immediately.

Isla tried to tug her hand back. “Just a little cut, I nicked myself by accident.”

Damari’s brow furrowed just a little. “The bandage is soaked through with blood.”

“It’s fine, it won’t mess up my driving. Can we go now?” she answered, desperate to get out of this place as fast as possible, and pulled her hand free of his grip.

Before she could step away, he draped his suit jacket over her shoulders, the weight of it warm. Isla blinked up at him, confused. “Mr. Evans, I can hold that for you.”

Damari held her gaze steady, no rush, no heat. “Your palms are all clammy with cold sweat. Figured you were probably chilly.”

Isla’s cheeks heated up. She’d jumped to the worst conclusion about why he’d touched her, and she was wrong. She turned to head for the elevator, but in the mirrored wall across from her, she spotted Vicente running down the hall after her.

The last thing she wanted was a screaming fight with her ex over another woman in front of her boss. On pure impulse, she grabbed the collar of Damari’s shirt and yanked him toward her. He stumbled forward, catching himself against the wall right next to her head.

Damari was caught completely off guard by her sudden move, frozen for a split second. But before he could even process what was happening, Isla’s soft arms wrapped around his waist, her voice a breathy whisper right against his ear: “Mr. Evans, can you please…”

She bit down hard on her lower lip, her voice shaking so bad it was barely audible. “Kiss me.”

Damari spotted Vicente’s white dress shirt moving closer down the hall, and he got it immediately, understood exactly what she needed. He reached up, pulled the hair clip from the back of her head, and let her chestnut waves spill down over her shoulders. His fingers tilted her chin up gentle, and he leaned down, and pressed a soft kiss right to her lips.