Revelation 

Isabella's POV 

The rejection email stared right back at me as though daring me to say something.

We regret to inform you that we will not be moving forward with your application at this time.

I'd read it five times already, as if the words would rearrange themselves into something less humiliating. The New York Chronicle. My dream publication. The place where real journalists were made.

And they didn't want me.

I threw my phone across the bed and pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars. This was supposed to be my fresh start. New city, new life, new Isabella who had her shit together and definitely didn't make terrible decisions involving older men in strip clubs.

Except I couldn't stop thinking about him.

It had been three weeks since that night, and my body still remembered every single thing he'd done to me. The way his hands had gripped my hips. The gravelly sound of his voice when he'd whispered filthy promises against my skin. How he'd made me come so hard I'd seen stars.

Stop Isabella.

I squeezed my thighs together, trying to ignore the heat stirring up in them. This was pathetic. I didn't even know his name—well, his first name. 

Mr. Whatever-He-Was had walked into my life for one night and apparently decided to take up permanent residence in my head.

And other places.

My hand drifted down my stomach before I could stop myself. I was already wet just thinking about him. About the way he'd pinned my wrists above my head and told me I was his. The way his tongue had—

My phone buzzed.

I snatched it up, grateful for the interruption before I did something really stupid like touch myself in the middle of the afternoon while thinking about a man whose full name I didn't even know.

Mom was calling.

I groaned. Of course.

"What, Mom?"

"Isabella Marie Moretti, is that any way to greet your mother?"

I closed my eyes. "Hi, Mom. What's up?"

"I need you to come home this weekend."

"I can't. I'm busy." 

I wasn't actually. I had exactly zero plans beyond eating Chinese takeout and wallowing in my rejection.

"Busy with what?"

"Internship stuff. Applications. You know, trying to build a career."

She scoffed and then in a low soft voice she said,  "Isabella, please. I need you here. I want you to meet someone."

I rolled my eyes, "If this is about setting me up with someone—"

"It's not just that. I want you to meet my husband."

Right. The husband she'd married just almost after burying my father. The husband I'd been successfully avoiding by throwing myself into school and pretending Brooklyn didn't exist anymore.

"I'm not interested in playing happy family, Mom."

"He's a good man. And he's been asking about you."

"Great. Tell him I said hi."

"Isabella." Her voice shifted, taking on that particular tone that meant she was about to guilt trip me into oblivion. "You're all I have left. Your father is gone, and I know you're angry with me, but I'm still your mother. I'm asking you—begging you—to come home for one weekend. Just meet him and the young man I told you about. Just give me this one thing."

I bit down on my tongue so hard that I tasted blood. She always did this, always knew exactly which buttons to push.

"Mom…"

"And," she continued, her voice brightening, "I found you the perfect internship opportunity. Remember my friend Diane? Her brother runs Hartley Media Group. They're looking for interns, and I already put in a good word for you. But you'd need to come see the office, meet with him in person."

I sat up straighter. Hartley Media Group. They weren't the Chronicle, but they were legitimate. Real investigative journalism, my professors in college had hyped them. They were second best, I just didn't apply because I wanted to leave Brooklyn but this offer was too good….

"You're bribing me."

"I'm being a good mother."

"That's literally the definition of a bribe."

She laughed, and for a second she sounded like the mom I remembered from before everything in our lives crashed.

"One weekend, sweetheart. That's all I'm asking."

I looked around my dingy apartment, looked at my laptop screen still displaying that rejection email. I think I needed a detox.

"Fine. One weekend. But I'm not making any promises about this guy you want me to meet."

"That's my girl. I'll send a car for you Saturday morning."

"I can take the train—"

"The car will be there at ten. I love you, baby."

She hung up before I could argue.

I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. One weekend. I could survive one weekend of playing nice with my mom's new husband and whoever she was trying to set me up with. Get the internship connection, put in my time, then get back to my real life.

Easy.

***********************

The house was huge.

Mom had moved since I'd left for school—traded our comfortable family home for this ridiculous mansion in the nice part of Brooklyn.

The driver who'd picked me up (because of course she'd sent an actual driver) pulled up in the circular driveway, and I grabbed my bag before he could get the door for me.

"Thanks. I've got it."

Mom was already at the front door, practically bouncing. She looked good, younger somehow, like she'd shaved off five years in the past few months. Her hair was different. Wore a Designer dress and her smile was so bright it made me wonder if Dad made her smile like this.

"Isabella! Oh, sweetheart, let me look at you."

She pulled me into a hug, I hugged her back, hating myself a little for how much I'd missed her.

"You look thin. Are you eating?"

"I'm fine, Mom."

"Come in, come in. I have lunch ready, and—oh, he's here! Perfect timing." She grabbed my hand, tugging me through a hall. "I want you to meet him. I've told him so much about you."

I felt a weird feeling in my guts. "Mom, can I at least put my bag down first—"

"Damian! She's here!"

I heard footsteps and watched a figure emerge from what looked like a study or office.

He had dark hair with just a touch of white at the temples. Sharp jaw. Those eyes—Jesus, those eyes that had looked at me like I was something to be devoured while he'd had his hands inside me.

My head spun.

"Isabella," Mom said, beaming like she'd just won the lottery. "This is my husband, Damian Blackwell. Damian, this is my daughter."

He looked at me. I looked at him. The air between us felt really tense and charged.

His expression barely changed, but I saw the flash of recognition on his face. The shock of it all.

My mother's husband. The man she'd married. The man she glowed about and clearly adored was the same man who'd bent me over his bed and made me scream.

No way. No fucking way.