Page 65 of The Founder's Power

She yawns and snuggles against me, and I rub her back until I drift off too.

* * *

It takesme two weeks to plan it. Not because I need the spectacle but because I want to get it right.

This isn’t about grandeur. It’s about her, and Isabelle has always deserved something unforgettable.

When the time comes, I tell her we’re attending a private event at a new art venue downtown—a mixed-use creative space being considered for Kincaid & Sinclair’s cultural innovation fund. It’s just close enough to truth that she doesn’t suspect anything. She wears a flowing black dress with paint still on her knuckles from a morning in the studio, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so perfect.

When we arrive, the space is quiet. There aren’t any guests, and there’s no press, only soft lighting shining on her art.

Every wall of the minimalist gallery is filled with pieces she created, curated from her early sketchbooks to her most recent commission. Her life. Her vision. Her brilliance.

She turns to me slowly, breath caught in her throat. “Damian, what is this?”

“This,” I say, taking her hand, “is the gallery of everything I almost missed while I was too busy building something hollow.”

I lead her to the center of the room where a single easel stands, draped in soft white cloth.

She glances at me, brows raised. “What did you do?”

I smile and nod toward the canvas.

She lifts the cloth.

It’s a painting of me. Not the man from the press. Not the suit or the scowl. It’s me sitting on the floor of her studio, barefoot, laughing.

Her gaze softens, and her fingers touch the edge of the canvas.

“You always saw me,” I say, “before I knew how to see myself.”

Then I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the box. Slowly, I drop to one knee beneath the glow of her own art. Tears well in her eyes.

“I built an empire once,” I say, “and I nearly lost everything that mattered because I didn’t know what power really meant, but now I do.”

“I used to think power was control,” I say quietly. “Owning things. Winning. Being the last one standing.”

“And now?” she asks, her voice soft.

I take her hand in mine. Bring it to my lips. “Now I know it’s you.”

Her eyes soften. “Damian…”

“I don’t need power,” I say. “I don’t need a throne. I don’t even need my name on a building.”

I open the box. The ring inside is set in rose gold, a brilliant-cut diamond flanked by delicate etched vines.

“I needyou.In every room, every plan, every part of my life from here forward. I want to build a future with you—not on top of the world, but next to it. With both of us holding the pen.”

She’s crying, smiling, glowing.

I’m not done yet.

“You are the most fearless, visionary, maddeningly grounded woman I’ve ever known, and I want to build everything that comes next with you.” I look up into her eyes. “Will you marry me, Isabelle?”

She launches into my arms, laughing and crying all at once, her yes whispered against my neck, her hands trembling as I slip the ring onto her finger. “It’s perfect,” she breathes, staring at it. “You are perfect.”

“No,” I say, holding her face in both hands. “Weare, but I would like a yes or no.”

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