Page 62 of The Founder's Power

CHAPTER33

ISABELLE

Dinner is simple tonight, takeout from the Thai place two blocks down. My gallery assistant swears it has the best green curry in the city, and she wasn’t wrong. I’m in bare feet and one of Damian’s soft black tees, and he’s helping wash out the wineglasses while I spoon rice into two mismatched bowls.

It’s quiet and comfortable and so different from who we used to be.

He sets the glasses on the counter to dry, then slides up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I feel the warm weight of his chin on my shoulder.

“You’re going to spoil me,” he murmurs, voice low, “making me dinner in your paint-stained shirt like some domestic dream.”

I laugh. “You picked up the food. I opened the wine. This is the extent of my culinary ambition.”

“You forgot the most important part,” he says, pressing a kiss just below my ear. “You let me stay.”

I almost melt as I turn to face him, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt. “Of course I did.”

He watches me for a moment, the lines around his eyes relaxed, that old wall of his nowhere in sight.

Then he clears his throat. Casual. Too casual. “So, I was thinking…”

I smirk. “That’s always dangerous.”

He narrows his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “I was thinking that maybe it’s time we talk about the next step.”

My breath catches just a little.

He must see the flicker in my expression because he holds up his hands like he’s defusing a bomb. “Nothing dramatic. No pressure. Just… if you ever get tired of walking past your neighbors’ screaming toddler and carrying three floors’ worth of groceries, the penthouse has an elevator and a view and enough closet space for even your paint-splattered coat collection.”

I laugh. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

“I’m suggesting,” he says with a crooked smile, “that we stop pretending like we don’t already live in each other’s skin.”

My heart flips.

But then he adds softly, seriously, “Or maybe… maybe we find something new. Together. A place that’s ours. From the ground up.”

I reach up and brush a kiss against his mouth. “You’re serious,” I murmur.

“Completely.”

I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “Then let’s look.”

“You sure?”

I smile. “We rebuilt a company. We survived Vincent. I think we can handle a lease.”

He chuckles, warm and low, and holds me a little tighter.

There’s still so much ahead, more decisions and more change, but right now, standing in my kitchen with his arms around me, I feel something I never felt even at the height of my success. I feel steady and not just in love but in life. With him. Us together.

We don’t finish the wine. We don’t finish the dishes either. One look across the room—his eyes dark, steady, full of something that makes heat pool low in my belly—and I know.

We don’t speak as he takes my hand. He walks me down the short hallway to my bedroom, fingers threading tightly with mine, thumb brushing over my knuckles like a silent promise.

Once inside, he shuts the door behind us with deliberate calm before turning to face me.

“Take off the shirt,” he says softly.

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