Page 36 of The Founder's Power

Currently, we’re sitting at my tiny kitchen table, the one with chipped paint and mismatched chairs. He’s across from me, sleeves rolled, tie undone, a glass of wine untouched at his elbow. The overhead light buzzes faintly. I’ve made roasted vegetables and grilled flatbread.

I wait until halfway through the meal to bring it up. Timing matters with Damian. He’s always halfway in a war.

“I got an email today,” I say, keeping my tone light. “A friend of mine from grad school works with this nonprofit that teaches art to at-risk youth. They want me to consult on a program in the city.”

He nods but doesn’t look up.

I try again. “It would be part-time. Flexible hours. But it could lead to something long-term. They’re trying to expand nationwide.”

“That’s good,” he says. He takes a bite and reaches for his phone.

My stomach drops.

He glances at the screen, thumbs something quickly. His brow furrows.

I stare at him. “Did you hear what I said?” I ask.

His eyes flick up. “What? Yes. The nonprofit. Consulting. That’s great, Isa.”

He says it like I told him I picked up a new kind of granola.

“It’s important to me,” I say more firmly.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” he answers, setting the phone down but keeping his hand near it like it might vibrate again at any second. “I’m just waiting on a callback from Zurich. Time difference’s tight right now.”

“I know,” I say quietly. “Everything’s tight.”

He doesn’t reply.

I look down at my plate. “It’s okay if you’re not interested. I just… thought you’d want to hear about something that matters to me.”

He sighs like he wants to say something. Maybe apologize. Maybe spin it into something reassuring. But all he does is sip his wine and murmur, “It sounds like a good opportunity.”

That’s the moment, the one where I know he’s already slipped back behind the wall.

I finish my food in silence. When Damian starts choosing the world again, I stop existing in it.

This is anything but fine. This disappearing act is exactly what broke us the first time, and I see the shape of it returning.

Worse now, maybe. Because this time I know what it feels like to have the real him. The man who listened. Who showed up. Who sat on my studio floor and watched me paint and allowed us to have space and time and the chance to grow close again.

Now he’s slipping back into the version of himself who sees love as a risk and vulnerability as a liability.

And I don’t know if I have the strength to lose him again.

I don’t say anything that night about it, though. I just walk him to the door.

He kisses my forehead and whispers, “I’ll make this right.”

But he’s already halfway out the door when he says it.

CHAPTER20

DAMIAN

Iknow she’s upset before she even says a word.

She’s quiet. Not the comfortable kind. The loaded kind.

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