Page 4 of The Founder's Power

I smile, and it’s practiced. Polished. Painfully professional. “It’s an art exhibit, Damian. Of course I’m here.”

A flicker of something passes through his eyes. Regret, maybe. Or longing. Or both.

Is that a crack? Not in me.

In him.

For all the stone he’s wrapped himself in, I see it. Barely a fracture, but it’s there, and I know I’m the one who caused it.

I shouldn’t care, but God help me… I do.

His gaze doesn’t waver.

That’s the first thing I notice. Not the fact that he’s closer now than he was a second ago or how the edge of his sleeve brushes against mine like a quiet threat… or a promise. It’s the way he looks at me, unapologetically, as if I’m the only person in this room worth noticing.

It used to make me feel invincible.

Now it just makes me feel exposed.

“You look…” He pauses, letting his eyes drift down the line of my dress and back up again. “Brilliant.”

“Damian,” I say, voice firm, “don’t.”

“What?” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Can’t a man compliment a woman he hasn’t seen in far too long?”

I cross my arms, more to anchor myself than anything else. “You never just complimented, Damian. You weaponized words, and you know it.”

That smile deepens into something more dangerous. “And you always saw through me. That’s what made it fun.”

“Fun,” I echo, dry. “That’s one word for it.”

He chuckles, and it’s warm and low. God, it still hits me like lightning. My chest tightens, my pulse betraying me with a sudden, aching rush. I haven’t thought about kissing him in years. Not seriously.

But right now, I remember every time.

“Still painting in reds and shadows?” he asks, his voice softening slightly. “I saw the gallery coverage last month.Fault Lines, right? That was yours?”

“Yes.” My voice is cool, but my skin is heating. “I’m surprised you noticed.”

“I notice everything about you, Isabelle.”

That shouldn’t make me feel anything, but it does.

I look away, pretending to study the nearest sculpture like it holds the answers to questions I shouldn’t be asking. “Why are you really here?”

His tone shifts, so subtle it’s almost imperceptible. “I’m not entirely sure.”

A silence settles between us. He doesn’t fill it with business pitches or veiled apologies or anything remotely expected of the man I once knew.

That might unsettle me the most.

Because for a flicker of a second, it feels like he’s not the empire-building, heart-shuttering version of himself. He’s just Damian, the man who once looked at me like I was the one piece of art he couldn’t let go of.

And worse? Some part of me—deep, buried, foolish—still remembers what it felt like to be his.

I take a step back. “It was good to see you.”

His expression falters just slightly, but he nods. “Likewise.”

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