All Chapters of Damien's Willing Captive : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

ISABELLA'S POV The doors opened and the interior of the mansion hit me like a blast of royalty. Gold accents. Massive chandeliers. A staircase that probably led to Narnia. And a floor so shiny I could see the shame in my reflection. He led me to the dining room, which looked like the royal court was about to convene. Long polished mahogany table. Crystal wine glasses. A vase of orchids that probably cost more than my rent. And there she was. The Devil’s mother. Perched at the far end of the table, perfectly manicured, powdered, and pressed. When her eyes met mine, her lips curled like I’d tracked mud into the Louvre. “Good evening, Mrs Salvador,” I greeted politely with a forced smile. "You made me wait for her?" she hissed at Jace. He gave her a smile that was half sarcasm, half ice. "Calm down, Mother. You heard what the doctor said during his last visit. Anger’s not good for your health." She shot him a death glare. He pulled out a chair for me like this was

ISABELLA’S POV I was chilled to the bone by the time I made it upstairs. The weather was unreasonably cold tonight, sending waves of goosebumps all over my body. I should’ve never gotten into that car in the first place. I shouldn’t have fallen for his threats, but I did. And what? Tacos? Who says that?! The hallway was too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your eardrums until they rang. I keyed into my apartment, pushing the door open cautiously. The scent of cinnamon-scented wax melts still lingered in the air, soft and familiar. But something else lingered too. I didn’t notice it at first. Not really. I was halfway through kicking off my shoes when a strange chill crawled up my spine. Something was… off. The couch throw was rumpled. Had I left it like that this evening? Maybe. I was in a rush. But the real alarm bells didn’t ring until I reached the kitchen. I froze. The mug. The stupid gray mug with the chipped handle that I distinctly remember

ISABELLA’S POV My brain short-circuited. Every rational thought I ever had went offline. I should’ve thrown it at him. Should’ve told him to burn in his gold-plated hell. Or at least dramatically gasped and backed away like in those cheesy soap operas Agnes watches at midnight when she can’t sleep. But what did I do? I took the damn ring. Against every warning in my head. Against the ‘Isabella, girl, this is how people disappear voice.’ Against all odds, reason, and common sense—I. Took. The. Ring. And of course, Jace grinned like he’d just won the bloody Super Bowl. He took my hand, slid the ring on, and said with all the smug satisfaction in the world, “Soon-to-be Mrs. Salvador.” I stared at the ring like it had just whispered betrayal into my soul. “It’s pretend, Jace. Pretend. You know that, right?” He raised an eyebrow. “Remember what they say. Fake it till you make it, sweetheart.” Ugh. I could already feel the migraine forming behind my left eye.

ISABELLA’S POV Her eyes didn’t flicker. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Mrs. Salvador stood in front of me like a monument to generational trauma, with her designer heels dug deep into the floor and her pearls clinking like miniature execution bells. “Marry my son?” she repeated slowly, voice sharp as a blade. “You think this is some kind of fairytale, Miss… whatever-your-last-name-is?” I smiled. “It’s Barnes, actually. And no, not a fairytale. If it were, you’d be a lot less evil and the birds would help me put on a tiara by now.” She took one calculated step closer, her eyes fuming with rage. “Let me make myself very clear. I don’t care what Jace said. I don’t care what PR stunt this is. I will not let some—” her eyes swept over me, full of venom “—random, lower-tier gallery girl with a tragic taste in nail color sink her claws into my son.” I blinked at her, lifted my hand, and admired my nail polish—black. Matte. Flawless. “Funny, Jace actually said he liked the claws.

ISABELLA’S POV It haunted my mouth, tingled on my skin, lingered in the tight pull of my stomach every time I remembered the way he gripped my thigh like it was instinct. The way his lips felt—hungry, hot, like he meant it. Like he wanted more. And now… we were alone. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was charged. My fingers curled into my palm, desperate not to reach for him. My throat felt dry, my pulse too loud. All I could think about was that kiss. The way it made me feel like maybe—just maybe—pretending was starting to feel a lot like wanting. Jace stood by the window, hands in his pockets, looking like some kind of tragic poem in a tailored suit. “So… brunch was cute. You thinking what I’m thinking? Round two?” He grinned, the mischief in his voice barely masked by a lazy chuckle. I rolled my eyes and kicked off my heels. “Cute my ass,” I said, plopping onto the couch, “that was… brunch from hell.” He turned to me, smirking. “You handled it like a pro. Es