Chapter Two

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Miss Moore," the man said, his voice a deep, commanding baritone.

He leaned forward slightly, stepping out of the heavy shadows of the backseat.

"Are you okay?"

Isabella stood frozen in the damp chill of the afternoon. She knew that face. It was impossible not to. He was on the massive billboard overlooking the financial district, the ruthless owner of Vanguard Holdings, the largest conglomerate in Europe.

Travis.

Up close, he was devastatingly handsome and intensely intimidating. He had discarded his suit jacket, his crisp white shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing dark, intricate tattoos wrapped around his forearms. A bad boy who had conquered the boardroom.

"I..." Isabella’s voice broke. A sob tore through her throat. "No. I'm not okay."

Travis pushed the door open further. His dark eyes, usually so cold in the magazines, softened as they swept over her ruined wedding dress.

"Get in," he commanded, but there was a gentle edge to it. "Before you catch a cold."

Isabella didn't think. She just moved. She collapsed onto the leather seat, the door shutting behind her to block out the world. The car pulled away from the estate, leaving the ruins of her life behind.

"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Where do you want to go?" Travis asked, turning to fully face her.

"I don't know. I have nowhere." The tears finally spilled over, hot and humiliating. "I can't go home. It’s his house. Everything was his."

Travis didn't say a word. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pristine, black silk handkerchief, pressing it into her trembling hands.

"Take a breath, Isabella," he said softly. "Just breathe."

She pressed the silk to her eyes. "He was with Eliana. In the library. On our wedding day."

Travis’s jaw tightened. "The bridesmaid?"

"My stepsister," Isabella choked out, the bitter taste of the words burning her tongue. "Ever since we were little, she tried to steal everything I had. My toys, my friends, my father's attention. And today... today she took my fiancé. She’s pregnant with his child."

A heavy silence filled the car.

"Puerto is a fool," Travis finally said, his voice a low rumble. "A blind, arrogant fool."

"He told me I was boring.” Isabella looked at him, her chest heaving.

"Why are you helping me? You don't even know me."

"I know enough," Travis murmured, his gaze locking onto hers. "I'm in town on business. Staying at the Rosewood. You'll come with me. You can stay as long as you need."

"I can't impose on you..."

"It's a penthouse, Isabella. You won't even know I'm there."

Thirty minutes later, they were standing in the middle of a sprawling, dimly lit hotel suite overlooking the city skyline. It was quiet. Safe.

Travis walked over to a crystal decanter, pouring amber liquid into two heavy glasses. He walked back and handed her one. His fingers brushed hers. He was so warm.

"Drink," he said softly. "It helps."

She took a sip. The whiskey burned down her throat, settling the violent shaking in her stomach.

"Better?" he asked, standing dangerously close.

"A little." She looked down at her massive, ridiculous dress. "I feel stupid. I look stupid."

"You look beautiful," Travis corrected her, his voice dropping an octave. "Shattered, but beautiful."

Isabella’s breath hitched. She looked up. He was staring at her mouth, his eyes dark and heavy with an emotion she hadn't seen in Puerto Rico for years. True, raw desire. But underneath it, there was a quiet respect. He wasn't pushing. He was just looking.

"Travis..." she whispered.

He reached out, his tattooed fingers gently touching her jawline. His thumb brushed away a stray tear.

"You don't deserve what they did to you," he murmured, stepping even closer. The scent of his expensive whiskey and something entirely male enveloped her. "You deserve to be worshipped."

Isabella didn't know what possessed her. Maybe it was the grief. Maybe it was the betrayal. Or maybe it was just the fact that for the first time in three years, a man was looking at her like she was the only woman in the room.

She leaned into his touch.

Travis groaned, a low, desperate sound. He dropped his glass onto a side table and cupped her face with both hands.

"Are you sure?" he whispered against her lips. "Because if I kiss you right now, I won't be able to stop."

"Don't stop," she breathed.

His lips crashed onto hers. It wasn't rough, but it was hungry. It was a kiss that demanded everything she had left to give. Isabella gasped, her hands tangling in his dark hair as he pulled her flush against his hard chest.

He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the velvet sofa. He laid her down gently, following her down. The heavy layers of the wedding dress felt completely wrong, and Travis seemed to agree.

"Let me take this off you," he whispered, his hands finding the zipper at her back. "You shouldn't wear his mistakes anymore."

"Please," she begged, pulling his shirt from his trousers.

The dress fell away. The pain of the day seemed to melt under his touch. He was slow. Deliberate. Every kiss, every touch of his rough hands against her skin was a vow. He worshipped every inch of her, replacing Puerto’s cruel words with breathless praise.

When they finally came together, Isabella cried out, not from sadness, but from a fierce, overwhelming relief. He held her tight, anchoring her in the storm, his heart beating a frantic rhythm against her own.

Isabella lay on Travis’s chest, tracing the ink on his arm. She felt exhausted, completely drained, but the agonizing pain in her chest had dulled.

Travis was awake, his fingers gently stroking her bare back.

"What happens tomorrow?" Isabella whispered into the quiet room. "I have no money. No home. My father will disown me for losing the Moore alliance."

Travis stopped moving. He shifted, pulling her up so she was looking down at him. His dark eyes were dead serious.

"You don't need their money. And you certainly don't need their home."

"Travis, I have to face reality."

"I am reality," he said softly, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. He searched her eyes for a long moment, the air suddenly thick with tension.

"Isabella," he said, his voice a rough whisper. "Would you be my wife?"