Chapter Five

Isadora’s POV

I didn’t know when I fell asleep.

One minute I was wrapped in his arms, whispering the words I never thought I’d say—You’re safe now, Darren—and the next, I was waking up alone.

The spot beside me was empty, though the warmth still lingered faintly against the sheets. I ran my fingers over it, tracing the imprint of his body in silence.

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Like last night had been a dream, too fragile to survive the morning.

A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I pushed the covers away and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My body felt different. Looser. As if some knot had unraveled overnight. Not gone, but slightly undone. My heart wasn’t pounding with dread for once. No wall of anxiety was pressing against my chest.

I should have felt relief.

But all I felt was… confusion.

And something dangerously close to longing.

A knock interrupted the stillness.

Soft. Measured.

Not Darren’s.

“Come in,” I called, pulling my robe tighter around me.

The door creaked open to reveal one of the house staff—Lydia, I thought. Young, sweet, always too nervous around me, like she didn’t know how to behave in front of the wife of Darren Barlowe.

“Good morning, Mrs. Barlowe,” she said with a gentle curtsy. “Mr. Barlowe asked me to let you know that breakfast has been served in the sunroom. He left early this morning, but he said to tell you… to dress comfortably.”

“Comfortably?” I repeated.

She nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Casual wear. He said it’s a surprise.”

A surprise? From Darren?

That alone felt suspicious enough to make me wary.

“Thank you,” I said softly. She bowed her head again and slipped out.

I closed the door behind her and leaned against it, arms crossed. Darren had been nothing but unpredictable lately. One minute he was cold, distant, emotionally armoured. The next, he was trembling in my arms and whispering things he probably wished he hadn’t said.

And now? Surprises?

God.

What was I getting myself into

The sunroom looked like something from a Southern Living magazine. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast golden rays across a breakfast spread that could feed five. Scones, croissants, fruits, bacon, pancakes, scrambled eggs, even a plate of sliced papaya—which I hadn’t eaten since I was a child.

I raised an eyebrow at the tiny folded card beside the cutlery.

“Eat well. You’ll need the energy. – D.”

I blinked.

Then snorted.

Was this his idea of flirting?

I sat down and let myself nibble on the scones first, still warm, buttery, and slightly sweet. I hated how good they were. Hated how this place, this house, this man, was beginning to twist itself into something other than a prison.

Maybe not a home yet… but not a cage either.

Twenty minutes later, I’d showered, pulled on a pair of high-waisted jeans, a cropped white blouse, and sneakers. I didn’t own a lot of casual clothes—most of my wardrobe had been selected for me post-marriage—but I’d found a small section of my own preferences tucked away, as if someone had taken time to include them.

Probably Alex. He seemed like the only one with common sense around here.

I stepped outside, not quite sure where to go.

Then I saw the black vintage Mercedes parked by the gate.

Darren leaned against it casually, arms crossed, wearing a dark blue t-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders a little too perfectly, and dark jeans. No gloves, no jacket. No suit. For once, he looked… human. Young. A man, not a monster.

He noticed me and straightened.

My stomach twisted.

“You’re late,” he said mildly.

“You didn’t give me a time.”

He smirked faintly and opened the passenger door for me. “Get in.”

I hesitated. “Where are we going?”

“Trust me,” he said simply.

Two words.

That’s all it took to set my heart off balance.

I narrowed my eyes. “I still don’t trust you.”

He shrugged. “Then call it a leap of curiosity.”

I slid into the seat, not sure if I hated or liked that answer.

We drove in silence for the first ten minutes.

Not awkward silence. Just… thoughtful. I kept glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, noting the way his profile looked in the daylight. His jaw was clean-shaven. His scar, though still prominent, didn’t seem as harsh in the soft sunlight pouring through the windshield.

He didn’t wear his prosthetic glove today.

His hand—half arm, really—rested on the gear stick, exposed. He wasn’t hiding it. That alone surprised me. Before, it had always been covered, as if he feared the world’s revulsion. But now… he didn’t seem to care.

That small act made something shift in me.

“You look different,” I said before I could stop myself.

His eyes flicked over to me. “Different how?”

“Like… less of an arrogant jackass.”

His lip twitched. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Another beat of silence.

Then I asked, “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned off the main road and onto a wide gravel path flanked by sprawling green pastures.

Eventually, a wooden sign came into view.

“Barlowe Ranch.”

I frowned. “A ranch?”

“My mother’s,” he said, voice lower now. “She left it to me.”

I stared out the window as the car slowed and pulled up in front of a sprawling red barn, white fencing, and pastures that stretched for miles. Horses grazed lazily in the distance. A gentle wind stirred the tall grass.

This place was… beautiful.

Peaceful.

“This is where you grew up?” I asked, stepping out.

“For a while,” he said. “Before New York. Before… all of it.”

I turned to face him. “Why bring me here?”

He glanced toward the barn, his expression unreadable again. “You said I was a monster.”

I winced slightly.

“And maybe I am,” he continued. “But before the world decided that, I had a place where I felt like a person. Like I mattered.”

I swallowed hard.

“That place is here,” he added.

And just like that, I understood.

He wasn’t just showing me where he grew up.

He was showing me the part of him he’d buried.

The part the world didn’t want to see.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “I want to show you something.”

The barn was massive inside.

Not just for animals, clearly. There were tools, storage equipment, even a loft with an old sofa and bookshelves. Dust particles danced in the light seeping through the cracks.

I followed him up the stairs into the loft space, my eyes sweeping over everything.

“Used to come up here when I was a kid,” Darren said, brushing his fingers over a dusty lamp. “Read books. Pretended I was somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

“You were a reader?” I asked, surprised.

He nodded. “Still am. You just wouldn’t know it because most people don’t bother asking.”

I smiled faintly. “You don’t exactly give off the warm and approachable vibe.”

“That’s because I’m not warm,” he said flatly. “But I am human.”

That made me pause.

It was the first time he’d said it so directly.

As if he needed me to hear it. To believe it.

“Do you remember what you read here?” I asked softly.

“Mostly old classics. Steinbeck. Hemingway. My mother was obsessed with making me ‘well-read.’” He made air quotes. “Said a man who could understand words could understand people.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” he said dryly. “But I understand words.”

I laughed, the sound surprising both of us.

And then, for reasons I couldn’t explain, I moved toward the old sofa and sat down.

He followed, lowering himself beside me. Not too close. Just enough.

I turned to face him, my voice quieter now. “You really wanted me to see this.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He hesitated.

Then, he said, “Because this is the only place where I don’t feel like I have to prove anything. And I want you to know me more than what you think I am.”

I stared at him for a long moment, the weight of his words settling over me like dust in the barn light.

And for once, I didn’t have a sharp reply.

Instead, I said the only thing that felt honest.

“Okay.”

I hadn’t expected peace from this man.

Not from Darren Barlowe.

Not from the scarred, stone-cold billionaire I’d been forced to marry.

But there I was, sitting in a dusty loft inside a barn that smelled faintly of hay, leather, and aged wood — and the peace settled into me like warm sunlight after a long storm.

“Okay,” I’d told him, the word lingering like a fragile truce between us.

Not forgiveness.

Not surrender.

Just a crack in the walls I’d built.

He didn’t speak for a while. Neither did I. The silence between us was no longer hostile or strained — it just was. A quiet acknowledgement of something we couldn’t name yet.