Page 15 of The Founder's Power

“I don’t blame you.”

“I want to, but I don’t.”

“Let me stay until you do.”

It’s reckless and stupid, but for the first time since I built this empire, I want something real more than I want anything else.

Isabelle doesn’t say anything right away. She just stands there, staring at me like she’s trying to peel back every layer or wall I’ve ever used to keep her out. My heart’s pounding. I’ve stood in front of investors who could ruin me and sat across from tycoons with knives hidden behind smiles, and I’ve never felt more exposed than I do right now.

Still, I don’t move. I meant what I said.

Finally, she steps aside.

No spoken invitation, but this quiet gesture is everything.

I move past her, and the door clicks softly shut behind us. The apartment smells like bergamot and paint. The walls are scattered with unfinished pieces, soft palettes, and raw emotion layered into canvas and frame. The room is dim, the only light spilling from a reading lamp near the couch and the halo of streetlights filtering through gauzy curtains.

She stays by the door, arms still folded like a barrier she’s not ready to lower. “I didn’t expect you to show up,” she says.

“I didn’t expect to want something this much again.”

Her eyes narrow, her expression cautious without a hint of anger. “And what is it you want, Damian?”

I hesitate. The words press at my throat, bigger than anything I’ve said aloud in years.

“Redemption,” I say finally. “Not just with you. With myself. I built something invincible. Profitable. Efficient. But the only time it ever felt alive… was when you were in it.”

She swallows, and her arms fall to her sides.

I step closer. “I was scared to need someone, scared of how much power that gave you over me.”

Her voice is quieter now. “And now?”

“Now I’m more scared of living without it.”

After a breath or two, she steps back and sits on the arm of the couch. Her hair falls around her face as she looks down, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. I’ve never seen her look so unsure… or so beautiful.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” she says, barely audible.

“You don’t have to do anything. I’m not here to force you into a decision or sell you a pitch.” I cross to her, slow, deliberate, giving her time to stop me.

She doesn’t.

“I’m here because I’m still in love with you,” I say, “even after everything. Maybe because of everything. And I’m willing to be the man who deserves to be in your life.”

Her eyes lift to mine, wide and vulnerable, and in that look, I see a thousand unsaid things—fear, longing, memory, hope.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said those words to her already. It’s too soon. She’ll never believe me. Words are empty. They can be twisted. I know what to say in a boardroom. I know how to get investors to trust me and back me. This is feelings and emotions, a whole new arena where I feel vulnerable and powerless.

She’s an artist. Emotions are everything to her. This divide between us, can it ever be crossed again?

But then she leans her head lightly against my chest and lets out a shaky breath, and I wrap my arms around her and hold her like a man who’s finally stopped running from what matters.

We stay like that for a long time with her head against my chest, my arms around her, the sound of her breath evening out just enough to suggest she’s letting herself trust the moment, even if she’s not ready to trust me yet.

I don’t move. I don’t dare.

Eventually, she pulls back, blinking slowly like she’s only just now registering the time. “It’s late,” she says.

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