*Isabella's POV*
The rest of the fucking week flew by in a blur of sun, sex, and way too much room service. Before I knew it, Sunday came crashing down, way sooner than I was ready for. We were standing on the tarmac in front of his private jet, the engine humming a low, impatient thrum.
"Fucking hell," he sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. "I hate that this investigation is becoming a whole trial."
"Me too," I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. "But is it that bad? I mean, it's just for selling some fucking drugs, right?"
He shook his head, his expression grim. "It's more complicated than that, sweetheart, but I don't want to fucking talk about it."
"Oh, thanks for the vote of confidence," I said, rolling my eyes. I hated it when he hid this shit from me. It felt like he was locking me out of a huge part of his life.
"I know you can handle it, doll," he said, his voice softening as he stepped closer. "I just want to enjoy the time I get with you without talking about all this bad shit. You're my piece of heaven in all this mess."
"Oh, please, continue," I said, holding up a hand. "I don't have diabetes yet, but I'm like three words away from it." He laughed, the sound warming me despite the cold wind.
"I love you," he said, his voice suddenly serious. He pulled me into his arms, holding me so tightly it almost hurt. "Have a safe flight," he whispered in my ear, his voice thick with an emotion he was trying to hide. He was holding me like he was fucking afraid I'd literally disappear into thin air.
A lump formed in my throat. "Bye, you big softie," I managed to say, my voice a bit shaky. I planted a quick kiss on his cheek, grabbed my bag, and forced myself to walk up the steps of the jet without looking back.
The door hissed shut behind me, sealing me off from him. I slumped into one of the plush leather seats, the scent of expensive leather filling my lungs. "Oh, Jacob," I sighed, my head falling into my hands.
Two fucking hours later, Tony parked the car in front of the house. The whole drive had been a silent, internal battle. I stepped out, the familiar sight of Damien's place doing little to calm the storm in my gut. I have to admit, I was pretty fucking excited to see him. I'd actively avoided thinking about him all week, because every single time his face popped into my head, I felt this huge, fucking knot form in my stomach. A messy cocktail of guilt and longing.
I wandered through the house, my footsteps echoing in the quiet space, looking for any sign of him. But then my heart fucking fell and shattered on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor when I saw a brunette at the sink, doing the dishes.
"Hello, miss," she greeted, turning towards me with a polite smile. But the smile came right back off my face when I saw her properly and I remembered. She's fucking gorgeous, all curves and long, dark hair. For a split second, a cold dread washed over me. She can't be Damien's new girlfriend, can she? And then it hit me. I know who she is. She's Violetta, the housekeeper.
I walked up to her, trying to pull myself together and act casual. "Hey, it's Violetta, right?" I greeted, making a point of formally introducing myself.
"That's right," she said, her voice smooth and professional. "You're Miss Williams, correct?"
"Just Isabella," I corrected, hating the formality.
"Alright," she nodded, turning her attention back to the dishes. The dismissal was subtle, but it was there.
"Do you know where Damien is?" I asked. I'm not gonna fucking lie, I was expecting another welcome. I know I was with his brother all week, a fact that made me feel like a total asshole, but where the hell was he? A hug? A "hello"? Anything?
"Mr. Lancaster is in his study," she said.
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"Mr Lancaster is in his office," Violetta said to Isabella, her voice a little too crisp, a little too formal.
But Isabella was already turning away, her mind buzzing, a slight, almost involuntary bounce in her step. She was a fucking mess of excitement and nerves, her only thought to finally see him, to bridge the gap that had opened up between them over the past week. She didn't hear a word Violetta said next.
"He's... not alone," the housekeeper added nervously, her voice barely a whisper. But Isabella was already halfway down the hall, the soft words lost to the cavernous space of the house.
Isabella walked towards the study, each step a mix of anticipation and a gnawing guilt she'd been trying to suppress all fucking week. She reached the heavy oak door of his study and, without a second thought, without even knocking, pushed it open.
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*Isabella's POV*
The first thing I saw was a pair of legs. Fucking legs that went on for days, encased in some stupidly expensive-looking heels, leaning right over Damien's desk. And there he was, the bastard, leaning back in his chair, watching her fucking mouth move while she batted her eyelashes at him like some kind of damn cartoon character.
That same strange, frustrating fucking emotion started eating me alive inside. Jealousy. Just like with that Rhea bitch in New York with Jacob, and that other slag, Brittany, from the office. It was still so fucking new to me, and I had no fucking clue how to deal with it. All I knew was that I was in full-on attack mode. Every instinct was screaming at me to protect what was fucking mine.
Who the fuck is she? Is she a client? Oh, shit, what if she is? I can't exactly fucking attack a client. But then why the hell is he meeting a client at home? And why is he dressed so fucking casually? Damn it. I thought he dressed like that... only for me. I thought I was the only one who got to see him like this, so relaxed, so... unguarded.
The envious monster inside me was fully fucking riled up, ready to tear someone's hair out.
Get a fucking grip, Isabella. You're a lady.