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.”

Isla nearly bit her tongue clean off as she stumbled over the word. "H-husband."

The word hung in the air, and her cheeks flushed bright crimson an instant later.

Damari swapped his dress shoes for a pair of soft, worn slippers, then handed a brand-new pair straight to Isla. "These are for you. Try 'em on, see if they fit."

Isla kicked off her heels and slipped them on. They were perfectly broken in, soft as cloud under her feet—no flashy logos, just solid, quiet craftsmanship.

Stepping into his home for the first time, she noticed it matched the vibe of his office entirely: understated, but impossibly imposing. The warmth of the space was muted by how huge it was, leaving a strange, hollow hush that felt almost deserted.

Damari curled his fingers around her wrist and tugged her toward the sofa. "Sit."

Isla didn't even think before she obeyed, sitting down almost on pure instinct.

He stepped out for a minute and came back with a first aid kit. Isla sat up straight, legs pressed together, hands folded primly in her lap—polished, but tight as a stretched wire. To Damari, she looked so small, so obedient, and oddly enough, it twisted something soft in his chest.

He set the kit down beside her on the sofa and dropped to one knee at her feet. "Give me your hand."

Only then did it click what he was doing—he meant to fix her cut finger. "It's fine, Mr. Evans, the bleeding already stopped."

Damari's voice dropped, firmer this time. "Give it to me."

Isla stared at his outstretched hand. He'd rolled his sleeves up neatly, revealing sharply defined forearms, veins snaking over his skin like an intricate old map. His long, clean fingers looked like they'd been carved from marble.

Droplets of shower water still clung to his skin, adding a quiet, intoxicating heat that made her stomach flip.

Isla hesitated. Her hand trembled when she held it out halfway, then yanked it back, nerves getting the better of her.

A strong hand closed around her wrist before she could retreat, yanking her indecision right out the window.

Beneath the crystal chandelier that brushed almost ten feet high, every flicker of her expression, every edge of her raw cut, was laid bare for Damari to see.

The bleeding had stopped, but the old band-aid was crusted dark red, proof of how bad the cut had been.

Damari peeled the old adhesive off slow, careful not to tear at her skin. "Mr. Evans, you can press harder," Isla said quickly. "I don't mind the pain."

While other girls grew up spoiled and coddled by their families, hers had only ever been a source of nothing but trouble. The only one who'd ever given her any comfort, any peace, was her brother Mack.

Years of that had toughened her up. She'd learned to carry her hurt quiet, never complaining.

Damari's eyes stayed fixed on her finger, his voice low and soft when he spoke. "Just because you can handle pain doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."

Those gentle words landed heavy in the hollow of Isla's chest, sinking deep.

When the band-aid came off, the cut was still raw, pink and angry against the cool air.

Instinct told Isla to yank her hand back, but Damari tightened his grip just enough to hold her still. "Don't move. I'm gonna disinfect it. It might sting a little, just bear with me."

He cleaned every trace of old blood off with saline, slathered on antibacterial ointment, then wrapped it tight with sterile gauze, methodical and careful the whole time.

It wasn't just a tiny nick—almost an inch long, deep enough that it would need a few days to heal.

Isla stayed completely silent while he worked, true to her word that she didn't fear pain.

But what she did fear was this: being alone here with him, in his quiet, too-big house.

"Mr. Evans, I'm all good now. It's getting late, I should probably head home..."

Damari, still kneeling at her feet, looked up at her. There was an emotion in his gaze she couldn't parse, couldn't name.

That intense, unblinking stare made her skin prickle with unease. Maybe it was just the heat of the room, but a thin layer of sweat broke out across the back of her shirt.

Finally, Damari spoke. "You know how to make hangover soup?"

"When it's done, bring it up to the second floor." He gave the instruction flat, then turned and headed up the stairs before she could answer.

The faint tang of alcohol lingered in the air behind him, and Isla realized he'd drunk heavily that night. She hurried straight for the kitchen.

She knew half a dozen hangover soup recipes by heart—something she'd picked out of necessity. When Mack got his kidney disease, her dad started drinking every night. Drunk, he'd either scream and hurl insults or throw punches.

Damari was the most composed person she'd ever met. Even drunk, he didn't make a scene. He'd still stopped to bandage her cut, even when he was half out of it.

Staring at the fresh gauze wrapped around her finger, it hit her: he was the first person besides Mack that had ever been this gentle with her. This careful.

Isla pulled out the ingredients, rinsed the herbs under cool running water, and set them to boil. She seeded and sliced lemons, set them aside to add once the soup cooled, stirred in honey, then tossed in pre-soaked oats and barley, letting it simmer low while she waited. When it was done, she carried it up the stairs.

The whole second floor was dark, except for one room glowing under the door. That had to be his.

Even though the door was cracked open, Isla knocked polite before stepping inside.

The master bedroom was lit by only one small bedside lamp, casting a warm gold glow over everything. Damari was sprawled out across the king-sized bed, his shirt collar unbuttoned, hair messy from sleep, a few dark strands fallen over his forehead.

Isla set the soup down on the nightstand, and realized he was already out cold.

The soft light gilded his sharp, chiseled features, stripping away the cold aloofness he wore during the day, leaving a surprisingly soft, approachable look underneath.

Since he was already asleep, the soup could wait.

Isla flipped off the lamp, turned to leave, and a strong hand clamped down around her wrist out of nowhere. One second she was standing by the bed, the next she was being tugged right into his solid, warm chest.

"Mr. Evans..." she breathed.

His arm wrapped tight around her waist, holding her pressed flush against him, no give at all.

Damari leaned in closer, his warm breath fanning over the shell of her ear, voice thick and foggy with sleep. "Stay."

Isla froze. Her breath caught in her throat and wouldn't come out.

The room was almost pitch black, only faint streetlight seeping through the curtains, barely enough to make out the outline of the furniture.

When he didn't say anything else, panic started to creep up her throat. She'd never been in a situation like this, never felt this out of control.

She tried again, voice wobbly. "Mr. Evans, the hangover soup is done. You can drink it whenever you wake up."

But he didn't answer. His warm breath just kept fanning over her neck, steady and slow.

Isla twisted carefully, trying to nudge him awake.

Damari was usually hyper-alert, razor-sharp, but the alcohol had blunted all his senses tonight. Every guard he kept up was down. When talking didn't work, she tried touching.

She pressed her uninjured hand light to his solid chest, prodding gentle. "Mr. Evans, wake up."

His chest was hard and firm under her palm, but he didn't even stir.

She tapped his cheek soft, careful not to jar him—her touch was so light it couldn't have woken anyone, really.

Finally, she reached for his thick wrist, shaking it gentle, voice pleading. "Mr. Evans, please let me go."

"Mr. Evans? Damari? Little Dam?"

He opened his eyes. His voice was still cool, thick with sleep but sharp enough to cut. "Who said you could call me that?"

Isla's mind went blank. She'd only heard the nickname from his grandfather, and she had no excuse, no explanation.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Evans, I..."

He cut her off before she could finish, unexpected. "Call me brother."