Mag-log inISABELLE'S POV:Clara hesitated, nervously shifting her weight from foot to foot. "He refused to give me his name," she admitted softly. "He just told me to tell you that an old friend was here. He said you would know exactly who he was, and he said it was extremely important."I slowly stood up from my chair. My knees felt so weak I had to rest my hand on the desk to keep from swaying. My mind was racing out of control, trying to make sense of the sudden terror gripping my chest. I did not know why, but I had a terrible, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was an overwhelming sense that my quiet world was about to enter complete disorder, shattering the fragile peace I had spent eight long years trying to build for myself.I forced my feet to move, walking out of my office and heading down the long hallway toward the front foyer of my penthouse. Every single one of my footsteps echoed loudly on the white marble floor. My heart was pounding so hard and fast that I could he
ISABELLE'S POV:The afternoon light was streaming through the floor to ceiling windows of my beautiful London penthouse and i was sitting at my desk, surrounded by stacks of manuscript paper and scattered notes, my laptop open in front of me with the cursor blinking steadily on a blank page. I had been staring at that white screen for hours, trying to find the right words, the right scene, and the exact emotion to capture in my latest novel.But the words simply would not come. They never came when I needed them most.I leaned back in my leather chair, pressing the heels of my hands against my temples. A dull pressure was building rapidly behind my eyes, bringing that familiar ache of exhaustion that always followed too many sleepless nights and endless anxious thoughts. I had been working on this manuscript for months, pouring every piece of my troubled soul into the pages, trying to create a story that would live up to the massive expectations of my readers and my publisher. But
DAMON'S POV:I found one of her romance novels by complete accident in a small airport bookstore during a layover in Europe. Seeing her name printed in big bold letters on the shiny cover felt like getting kicked right in the stomach. Her photo was printed on the back page, looking as stunning and untouchable as ever.I bought every single copy the shop had. I read them all, cover to cover, while sitting alone in hotel rooms. I read her stories about brave heroes and about leading women who were strong and fierce. I saw her face on giant billboards, on magazine covers in groceries, and on talk shows. I watched from afar as she turned into one of the most famous, successful romance writers in the country. She had fame, wealth, independence, and the love of millions of readers.And I hated her for it. I hated her with every fiber of my being for living such a perfect life while I was out in the dirt, bleeding out my soul.When my time in the service ended, I took my savings, my mi
DAMON'S POV:It has been eight long years since I walked away from the grand estate with my head low and my chest feeling like it had been sliced open. Eight years since I left behind every single thing I had ever known, loved, or trusted. Eight years since Isabelle Valancourt looked me dead in the eye and told me I was a nobody, that I was just a poor groundskeeper's son, and that she wanted me out of her life forever.Eight years, and I had not forgotten a single second of that afternoon and I spent every single one of those years turning myself into a completely different man. I had made a silent vow to myself that cold night, sitting alone in my parents' village with my cheap duffel bag packed. I vowed that I would become someone powerful. I would turn into a man she could never look down on again. I would become someone who actually mattered in this world, someone whose name carried real weight.Most of all, I promised myself that I would make her answer for what she had do
ISABELLE'S POV:Not a single one of those men could make me laugh the way he used to. No one made me feel completely safe and protected just by standing next to me. No one ever looked at me with that raw, complete devotion, as if I were the only girl in the whole wide world. They were all polite, polished, and fine, but none of them had his fire, his deep intensity, or his absolute loyalty.So I always ended things before they could get serious. I broke off every single relationship, packing up my things and telling those nice men that they deserved better. I always told them it was not their fault, that the problem was entirely with me.And that was the absolute truth. It was always me. I was a broken woman, completely stuck in the past, still deeply in love with a childhood memory, and a boy who had walked off and never looked back.The heavy weight of guilt never left my side for a single day.I felt guilty for the cruel way I had treated him in that garden. I felt guilty for
ISABELLE'S POV:EIGHT LONG YEARS LATER...It had been eight full years since I stood in the garden and broke Damon's heart into dust. Eight years since I watched his back as he walked away. Eight years since I made a desperate choice that ended up haunting every single day of my life.I spent all of those years trying my best to forget him, but it was like trying to stop breathing.I buried myself in writing because that was the only thing I knew how to do apart from drawing design which I stopped. I poured every bit of my hidden pain into my stories, creating imaginary worlds where love was simple, communication was easy, and heartbreak was only temporary. I wrote about brave heroes who fought through every obstacle, men who stood strong and never gave up on the women they loved. I wrote about fierce women who were independent, brave, and never let fear ruin their lives.I wrote about everything under the sun except the actual truth sitting in my chest.My very first novel cam
The forgotten anniversaries. There had been three of those. Three times she had dressed up nice and made dinner and waited and waited and waited until finally getting a text that said "working late sorry" with no exclamation points, no emojis, no nothing.The cruel comments. Those were worse."You
Celestine Valancourt stood in the bathroom of her penthouse apartment, her bare feet cold against the imported marble floor, staring at a little plastic stick that had just completely and utterly rearranged her entire universe. There were two little pink lines staring back at her. Two little lines
KIER'S POV:I pour myself a drink and I sit in the dark and I wait for her to come back.She always comes back.But she does not come back.A week passes. Then another. The penthouse stays empty. My calls go straight to voicemail. My texts go unanswered. I send messages through her email, through s
She watched from the window as her father walked out to greet him.August Valancourt shook Lysander's hand with both of his, the way he did with people he truly respected, and he said something that made Lysander nod solemnly. Then her mother appeared, and Isabelle kissed Lysander on both cheeks, t







