Page 6 of The Founder's Power

Not from Isabelle.

Not after how she walked away, all composed, beautiful, and devastating. Like she’d mastered the art of surviving me.

But it comes anyway.

I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop thinking about yesterday.

I stare at the screen longer than I should, rereading the message like it might rewrite itself if I blink. It doesn’t.

I text back and one text leads to another, and ten minutes later, I’m across the city.

Tucked between a flower shop bursting with color and a quiet old-world tailor, Hearth & Honey almost looks like something out of a fairy tale. Its exterior is a soft sage green with white-trimmed windows, ivy curling around the hand-painted sign that hangs above the door. The sign itself is aged wood, carved with delicate lettering and a small, etched bee tucked into the corner. The front windows are slightly fogged with condensation from the warmth inside, and there’s a chalkboard easel near the entrance that reads, “Today’s Special: Lavender Honey Latte & Warm Apple Tart” in swooping cursive. A few mismatched bistro chairs and tables sit outside under a striped awning.

This isn’t my kind of place.

I know it the second I push open the door and hear the faint chime of a bell overhead, soft not urgent. Everything inside is warm, gentle, handmade in a way that feels deeply personal. I don’t do personal. Not anymore.

The air is thick with the scent of honey and orange peel, like someone bottled nostalgia and set it loose in here. The fireplace in the back crackles low, and a candle flickers on every table. Even the shadows feel soft.

It’s not me, but it’s her.

God, it’ssoher.

Isabelle always found the magic in things like this—in chipped teacups and crooked paintings, in places that felt lived-in instead of designed. I used to tease her for dragging me into places like this. Now, I feel like I’m trespassing in a memory I wasn’t invited to relive.

My shoes echo too sharply against the wood. My suit feels too crisp, too cold for this kind of setting.

I scan the room and spot her instantly.

Sitting near the window. No makeup. Hair pulled back. Her hands wrapped around a coffee cup like it’s the only source of stability in the room. Suddenly I can’t remember how I ever managed to breathe without this view in front of me.

I walk toward her, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel powerful. I just feel like a man who’s about to sit down across from the woman he never stopped loving.

She looks up, and I sit without a word.

For a long time, neither of us says anything. The silence is heavy but not empty.

Finally, she exhales. “This was a bad idea.”

“Probably,” I admit, “but you texted me.”

“I know.” She stares into her coffee then looks up, meeting my eyes. “I keep trying to convince myself that I imagined it. That seeing you again didn’t shake me. That you’re just someone I used to know.”

I wait.

“But you’re not.” Her voice softens. “And that scares me.”

I lean forward, elbows on the table. “You think I haven’t been haunted by the same thing since the moment I saw you?”

“That’s the problem, Damian. You always say the right thing. You always sound sincere.”

I flinch.

She presses on, voice quieter now. “You shattered me once. Not all at once. Not with betrayal or cruelty. Just little by little. With your absence. With every missed dinner. Every cold excuse. With the way I stopped recognizing myself just to fit into your world.”

I swallow hard. There’s nothing to say in my defense. She’s not wrong.

“I’m not asking for anything,” she says quickly, as if reading the tension building in my shoulders. “I just needed you to know that I’m not unaffected. That this isn’t easy for me.”

---