Chapter 5
897words
He didn't stop after that night.
First, it was pictures of our intimate moments. Then the texts started. Demands for me to come back.
This morning, a velvet box was waiting outside my studio.
Inside were the lace panties I’d left at his penthouse.
The card had his arrogant scrawl: "Waiting for you to come home."
I shoved them into the incinerator and watched the lace turn to ash.
I spend my days and nights in my studio, restoring paintings.
It's my sanctuary.
But now, his memory haunts this place like a cheap cologne.
My phone buzzes on the table.
It was a new text.
My body tenses.
But the name on the screen is Julian Thorne.
"Seen the news?"
I put down my brush, confused. I pull up the news app.
The Wall Street Journal headline hits me like a punch: "Thorne Group Completes Hostile Takeover. Meridian Corp Changes Hands in 24 Hours."
I skim the article.
Meridian, a notoriously corrupt real estate company. They bullied small businesses. And whispers said they were backed by Costello money.
This wasn't just business for Julian. This was a declaration of war, aimed straight at Damien.
Another text comes through: "One down. Who's next?"
I can't help but smile.
That dark humor of his. It always gets me.
I text back: "Impressive. But my enemies are more dangerous than you think."
"I like a challenge." His reply is instant. "Are you free tonight? There's somewhere I want to take you."
I hesitate. "Where?"
"The Hamptons Polo Club. Match is tomorrow, party tonight. It's the one world he craves but can't buy his way into."
The Hamptons. The heart of New York’s old money.
Damien always sneered at it, but his hunger was obvious.
"I don't think I belong there."
"Trust me, Isabella. You're not there to belong. You're there to conquer."
I look at myself in the mirror.
Maybe it's time to show New York I'm nobody's property.
"Okay. What time?"
"Seven. I'll pick you up."
Two hours later, I stand before my closet.
I choose a navy silk dress. Simple, elegant, with a back that plunges dangerously low. This dress is a weapon. Every step I take is a promise of war.
The doorbell rings. My heart pounds.
Julian stands there in a white polo and khakis.
Simple clothes that on any other man would be forgettable. On him, they were devastating.
"You look stunning," he says, his eyes full of genuine admiration. "Like a masterpiece ready for war."
"Thank you." Heat rises in my cheeks.
The Hamptons Polo Club is an endless expanse of perfect green.
"Nervous?" Julian asks. He feels the tremble in my hand.
"A little," I admit.
"Don't be," he whispers, his warm breath ghosted across my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. "Tonight, you're the queen. And they are all your subjects."
My breath catches in my throat.
He's already leading me into the crowd, a calm smile on his face.
The party is on the clubhouse terrace.
Well-dressed men and women everywhere. Champagne sparkling in crystal flutes.
It’s nothing like Damien’s world of violence. This is a battlefield with no visible blood.
"Julian!" A silver-haired man approaches. "You finally made it."
"Charles." Julian shakes his hand. "Let me introduce you. This is Isabella Rossi, the art restorer. Isabella, this is Charles Whitman, the club president."
"Rossi?" Charles's eyes light up. "You're the genius who restored the da Vinci at the Met?"
"You're too kind."
"Not at all. I saw the painting. Your work is magic."
Julian stays by my side all night.
He's not just my date. He's my ally.
I use what I know about the old families, whispering in his ear. Pointing out Damien’s business rivals.
I don't just talk about art. I talk about investments. Markets. Power.
I see the surprise and respect in the eyes of the men around us.
"You know her well," a woman says to Julian. "How long have you been together?"
"We haven't even begun," Julian answers, his gaze burning into mine. "But I'd bet my entire world on how we end."
Goosebumps crawl up my skin.
The next day's polo match is even more spectacular.
Julian, on a chestnut stallion, owns the field.
His movements are powerful, elegant. A natural-born king.
The final play. He charges. The mallet connects with a sharp crack. A perfect shot.
The crowd roars.
He dismounts and walks toward me, holding a bouquet of red roses. "For my champion," he says with a victorious smile.
I laugh, taking them. "I think you're the champion here."
"Then give me a kiss instead." He leans down, his lips brushing mine.
Cheers and whistles erupt around us.
My cheeks burn.
Across the field, I spot a photographer from Vanity Fair.
An idea sparks. I grab Julian's tie, pulling him down to me.
I rise onto my toes and give him a deep, lingering kiss.
The flash goes off. I open my eyes. Over Julian's shoulder, I can almost see Damien’s face, contorted in rage.
A small smile touches my lips.
Three hours later, my phone explodes.
Vanity Fair has posted the photo.
Me, holding the roses, locked in a passionate kiss with Julian.
His hand is locked possessively at my waist.
The headline reads: "Don Damien's Ex, Isabella Rossi, in Steamy Kiss with Julian Thorne in the Hamptons."
