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.

Damari Evans moved with the fluid grace of a river, every movement seamless. When Isla Turner stepped into the shadow he cast, she felt the warm press of his lips against hers. Normally reserved and strictly by the book, Damari stunned her with the sudden, unexpected warmth rolling off him.

Vicente Wood, her ex, had kissed her forehead, the bridge of her nose, even her cheeks a hundred times— but he’d never touched her lips. Isla wasn’t used to this kind of close proximity, and a hot wave of embarrassment washed over her just being this close to her old flame out of nowhere.

Damari could feel the woman in his arms was unmoored, vulnerable. Like a tiny stray cat caught in a winter blizzard, shivering every time the wind bit. He shifted his hand to her back, tucking her away from the cold brick at her spine, and hauled her tighter, trying to soothe her jittery nerves with his own heat.

Vicente had come sprinting outside, desperate to explain himself to Isla. She’d shown up that evening to pick him up, and that had to be a good sign, right? A shot at getting back together. He needed her to believe there was nothing going on between him and Rhea Rodriguez.

When he rounded the corner, he caught sight of a couple locked in a heated kiss. The woman’s hair fell to hide her face, and she was tucked all soft into the man’s coat, held in such a protective grip that her features were completely obscured. The man’s hand cupped her cheek, strong fingers with prominent veins, and his watch glinted in the dim light— a dead giveaway of the commanding, powerful man holding her.

They kissed like the whole rest of the world had just ceased to exist. Vicente averted his eyes fast, unable to picture the carefree woman in that embrace as the calm, put-together Isla Turner he knew.

In that moment, Isla felt like driftwood bobbing in the ocean. She fisted the open collar of Damari’s shirt, her trembling lashes giving away every bit of her inner conflict. Every single one of her senses was wrapped up in the man in front of her; time felt like it had frozen solid. She couldn’t tell if Vicente had left yet.

Damari kissed her gentle, no demand, just the soft brush of his lips against hers. Even so, the light press of his mouth turned her knees to jelly. She leaned into his shoulder, breathless, and whispered, “Did he leave?”

Damari’s voice was low and magnetic, rough like sandpaper brushing over something delicate. Isla pushed him away fast, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks blazing pink.

“Mr. Evans, I’m so sorry. I just broke up with my ex, I didn’t want to face him. Earlier…”

She dipped her head, stumbling over the explanation, earnest but awkward.

Damari caught her wrist, his tone light. “Helping my wife out of a tight spot is the very least I can do.”

The confused look she gave him was so damned charming, it made his chest feel tight.

He kept his face perfectly straight, and asked, “Need I remind you? We’re already legally married.”

Before Isla could fully wrap her head around what that meant, they were already heading out via the private elevator, dodging any chance run-in with Vicente.

Inside the elevator, Isla’s pale cheeks bloomed rosy, just like a ripe peach, soft and sweet and impossible to look away from.

The cold night air outside finally cooled the heat burning up Isla’s face. Dazed, she kept wondering if Damari’s words had just been to help her out, nothing more. Nothing deeper.

Isla never was one to overthink things. She got her head back on straight fast, and broke the thick awkward silence hanging between them.

Damari nodded, and handed her the car keys. When their fingers brushed, a tiny spark of warmth zinged through both of them.

After that kiss back at the entrance, Isla was antsy. She stepped ahead to open the back door for him, like she was supposed to.

Damari moved right past her, and wrenched open the passenger door instead. His gaze was deep, steady, unwavering. “You’re not my chauffeur.”

Isla nodded, getting it. Of course. She was his assistant, not a driver. My bad.

When she shut the back door and slid into the driver’s seat, she noticed Damari hadn’t buckled his seatbelt. Probably the drink he’d had earlier throwing him off.

The luxury sedan was so spacious she couldn’t reach it from the driver’s seat.

She spoke soft, a quiet reminder. “Mr. Evans, your seatbelt.”

The man lounged back against the leather seat, streetlights gilding the sharp edge of his chiseled profile and catching the faint fatigue under his eyes.

Damari looked half asleep, eyes closed, ignoring her reminder.

Committed to keeping things professional, Isla leaned over him to reach the seatbelt. Her fingers had just brushed the buckle when she locked eyes with his sharp, awake gaze. Her balance gave out, and she tumbled right into Damari’s lap.

“Aah…” she gasped. When she blinked her eyes open, she realized she was awkwardly kneeling between his spread legs, hands splayed over his shoulders, pressed flush to his solid, warm chest.

“Mr. Evans, I was just trying to fasten your seatbelt,” Isla rushed to explain, soft and flustered, under his unblinking scrutiny.

Anyone walking in on this position would think she was hitting on him! Previous assistants had gotten fired for way less than this with Damari.

Desperate to hang onto her job, Isla babbled, “I saw you were awake and I got nervous. It wasn’t on purpose, I swear…”

Never before had Isla been this flustered around him. Her clear, bright eyes gave away every bit of her unease, and sheen of unshed tears glinted at the corners.

Damari lifted her chin, his voice rough and husky. “Wasn’t intentional what?”

Unaware of how heavy his gaze was on her, she blurted, “I didn’t mean to flirt with you.”

Damari laughed, low and warm. “Isla, even this level of obvious awkwardness doesn’t tempt me.”

Isla was stunned by the smile tugging at his lips.

She’d seen him smile before. But those smiles were always cold. Mocking.

This one was like sunlight splitting through storm clouds, spilling soft golden light over a still lake. Mesmerizing. Stunning.

Maybe it was the smile that dazzled her into opening her big mouth. She asked, innocent and dumb, “Then what would it take?”

She regretted the question instantly. She fumbled to buckle his seatbelt as fast as she could and pulled out of the parking spot like she was fleeing the cops.

Damari never answered. Isla kept her eyes fixed on the road, but snuck a quick glance at him out of the corner of her eye.

He was resting his chin on his hand, staring lazily out the window. Was it just her imagination? Or was there still a tiny smile playing at the corner of his lips?

Damari’s mind briefly drifted to the lace nightgown he’d seen laid out on her tray earlier that week.

At least that would be more tempting.

When they pulled up to Damari’s private residence, the second Isla parked she rushed out to yank open the passenger door for him.

Damari stepped out graceful as ever, and Isla locked the car before following him inside. At the front entrance, she set the car keys down on the side table by the door.

“Mr. Evans, you should get some rest. I’ll be heading out now.”

He turned to face her, blocking the doorway with easy, natural authority, his voice cool. “What do you mean, heading out?”

Sensing he was pissed, Isla’s brain raced a mile a minute trying to figure out what she’d messed up.

She’d definitely locked the car, right? Was it her driving that annoyed him?

“Mr. Evans, I don’t drive that often. I’m sorry if the ride wasn’t comfortable. I promise I’ll practice more…”

Before she could finish her sentence, Damari tugged her inside the house and shut the door with a firm, final thud.

She ended up pinned against his chest, overwhelmed by how big and intense he felt against her.

“Mr. Evans, please just tell me what I did wrong and I’ll fix it. I really need this job, please don’t fire me.”

Her voice came out plaintive, wobbly, and she heard him let out a soft sigh right above her head.

When he said her name, it came out deep, rich, soothing enough that she froze mid-babble.

Confused, she looked up at him. The dim light hid whatever emotion was swimming in his eyes.

He spoke slow, deliberate, every word sinking right into her chest. “We’re married now. Where do you think you’re going?”

“Mr. Evans, this is your home.”

Damari added, soft and sure, “It’s your husband’s home.”