The day unfolded with its usual precision–meetings, calls, and decisions that shaped the empire Damian Moretti had built through discipline and control.
By midafternoon, his phone buzzed again—same number. He stared at it briefly before answering.
"Before you hang up," Isabella said quickly, her tone smooth and coaxing, "hear me out."
He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "You've already said enough."
"Dinner," she suggested. "Neutral ground. Public place. You can even bring your conscience if it makes you feel better."
"Not interested."
"It's just dinner, Damian," she murmured, softening her tone. "You owe me at least that much. After all, we didn't exactly say goodbye properly."
He hesitated—not out of temptation but curiosity. The kind that always precedes trouble.
"Alright, one dinner," he finally said.
"Perfect," she purred. "Eight o'clock at Rivière Hotel."
He didn't confirm, but she hung up anyway, sure he would show.
The Rivière Hotel was a monument of glass and gold, its name whispered among the city's elite.
Damian arrived at nine, his expression composed, presence commanding enough to draw every eye. The maître d' recognized him immediately and led him to the private table Isabella had reserved.
Of course, she was waiting. Dressed in deep crimson silk, her hair swept back, a glass of wine untouched before her. When she saw him, her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.
"You're late."
"I wasn't planning to come," he said, taking the seat across from her. "You should be grateful I changed my mind."
"I am," she replied, her tone smooth as velvet. "You always did like making an entrance."
Dinner passed quickly in a string of meaningless conversations. She spoke of the past, of old friends, of the empire he had built. He listened detached, his replies clipped and polite. Yet each time she leaned closer or her perfume wafted across the table, he felt the tension tighten.
When the plates were cleared, she tilted her head. "One drink upstairs? The view's better."
"I have somewhere to be."
"Five minutes," she said softly. "You used to like the view."
He hesitated then rose. "Five minutes."
The suite was ready—champagne chilling, lights dimmed, curtains drawn.
Isabella moved with practiced grace, her heels softly clicking on the marble floor. She reached for the bottle at the small bar, her back to him, her hand slipping into her clutch briefly. A tiny vial glinted between her fingers before she tilted it over a glass. The clear liquid inside was invisible once mixed into the champagne.
She turned, her smile flawless. "To old friends," she said, handing him the glass.
He took it unaware and raised it slightly before taking a sip. The taste was sharp but not unpleasant. He set it down, watching her.
"You didn't bring me here for the view," he said.
She smiled, stepping closer. "You always were perceptive."
He stepped back, took another sip—the third was slower, the fourth almost out of habit. This time, the taste was different—slightly bitter, metallic.
His vision blurred. The room tilted.
"Isabella," he said, his voice low, warning.
She smiled, stepping even closer. "Relax, Damian. You always fight too hard."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing you won't survive," she whispered, her lips curling. "You could've had me once. I'm just giving you another chance."
Her fingers brushed his collar, tracing the edge of his shirt.
He caught her wrist before she could unbutton the first button.
He shoved her back, the glass shattering between them. "You're insane."
He forced himself up from the chair, pushing past her.
Her expression hardened. "You'll regret walking away again."
He didn't answer. He made his way to the elevator, the corridor spinning as he moved. Somehow, he reached his car, the night air cutting through the haze.
By the time he reached home, the drug was wearing off—only exhaustion and fury remained.
Alessia was waiting. One look at him, and her heart clenched.
"Damian," she whispered, rushing to him.
He didn't speak. He simply let her guide him inside, leaning slightly against her as they crossed the marble floor. She helped him to the bedroom, her hands gentle but firm, her worry growing with each step.
"Sit," she said softly, handing him a glass of water. He obeyed. She pressed it into his hand, watching as he drank slowly, easing the tension in his shoulders.
"Are you hurt?" she asked quietly.
"No," he said after a moment, his voice low. "Just tired."
She nodded, though she didn't believe him. She took the glass from his hand, set it aside, and began unbuttoning his cuffs, helping him out of his jacket and shirt. He didn't resist; exhaustion had settled deep into his bones.
When she finished, she brought a damp cloth to wipe his face, his neck, and the back of his hands. The simple act was tender and grounding. He closed his eyes, letting her care for him in silence.
"Lie down," she murmured.
He did. She pulled the blanket over him, brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and sat beside him until his breathing slowed.
She fell asleep beside him. Outside, the night was still. The city lights flickered faintly through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room.