Page 3 of The Founder's Power

He nods, thoughtful, before moving on.

Another critic scribbles notes. A woman in a designer dress whispers something to her friend and gestures toward the brushstrokes. A collector asks my assistant about pricing. I’m surrounded by people, by admiration, by proof that I’ve made it.

And yet…

My gaze drifts to the painting again. The center of it holds a single line—black, jagged, cutting through the color like a scar. Most people don’t even see it.

But I know it’s there.

It’s him.

Damian.

He’s not in my life anymore, but he’s still in my work. He exists in negative space and rough texture. In all the things I had to rebuild once I walked away.

I sip my champagne and remind myself that this—this success, this peace—was hard-won.

I’m not waiting for him.

But sometimes, when the night is too quiet or the wrong song comes on, I still feel him in the hollow places.

And I wonder if he ever feels me too.

* * *

I don’t realizehe’s here until it’s too late to leave.

One moment I’m flipping through a catalog of architectural renderings for a joint exhibit—function meets form, they said—and the next, I start to hear whispers. Someone important must have entered.

I look up, and there he is.

Damian Kincaid.

Standing just beyond the entryway in a charcoal suit that fits him like it was stitched by power itself. He hasn’t spotted me yet—his attention is locked in polite conversation with one of the curators—but it doesn’t matter. My pulse has already spiked. My fingers curl against the catalog, gripping it too tightly.

It’s been years.

He looks… the same. No, not the same. More contained. More severe. As if someone tried to sculpt him from marble and only got halfway through softening the edges. The years have made him even more beautiful in a way that hurts to look at.

He turns. His eyes find mine, and I hate so very much that everything else falls away.

There’s a beat of stillness, like the world inhales and forgets how to exhale. I force myself to stand taller, chin lifted, even as the memories come roaring back—his hands on my skin, his voice low in the dark, the way he used to look at me like I was the one thing he could never control.

His expression is unreadable, but his posture has changed. He’s no longer facing the curator. He’s facing me.

I almost step back.

Almost.

But I don’t.

Instead, I say, “Damian.”

His name feels unfamiliar in my mouth and far too natural at the same time.

He crosses to me slowly, like he’s not sure I’m real. When he finally stops, there’s barely two feet between us. I can smell his cologne—sharp and clean and entirely him.

“Isabelle.” His voice is low and rough. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

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