Chapter 4 Four

The first time Isla met Damian Sinclair, she knew he was trouble.

Not the kind of trouble that came with reckless impulsivity or charming arrogance-no, Damian's kind of trouble was calculated, slow-burning, and utterly devastating.

And yet, she had still walked straight into it.

It had been years ago, at a high-profile gala hosted by her father's business associates. The grand ballroom had been filled with powerful men in tailored suits, women draped in designer gowns, and an atmosphere thick with polished pleasantries and hidden agendas. Isla had been accustomed to these events, to the suffocating world of wealth and influence, but that night had been different.

That night, he had been there.

She had spotted him across the room-tall, composed, exuding the kind of effortless dominance that made people step aside without him having to say a word. His suit had been black, crisp and perfectly tailored, a stark contrast to the ice in his gaze as he listened to a conversation he clearly found uninteresting.

He had been the kind of man who commanded attention without asking for it.

And he had noticed her watching.

Isla had turned away quickly, but not before she had seen the flicker of amusement in his eyes, the barely-there smirk that hinted at the fact that he knew the effect he had on people.

On her.

She had told herself it didn't matter. That he was just another man in a sea of the elite, that she had no business being curious about him.

But fate had other plans.

Later that evening, she had escaped to the balcony, desperate for fresh air, for space away from the suffocating expectations of the night. The city lights stretched before her, glittering against the darkness, and for a moment, she had allowed herself to breathe.

Then, she had felt it.

A presence.

"You don't seem like the kind of woman who enjoys these events," a deep voice had murmured behind her.

She had turned, and there he was.

Damian Sinclair.

Up close, he had been even more devastating.

His sharp features were illuminated by the soft glow of the city, his dark hair slightly tousled, as if he had run a frustrated hand through it. But it was his eyes that had held her captive-intense, knowing, as if he could see past the carefully constructed mask she had spent years perfecting.

"Neither do you," she had replied, her voice steady despite the way her heart pounded.

He had smirked then, slow and deliberate. "True."

For a moment, they had simply stared at each other, the air between them crackling with an energy she hadn't understood at the time.

Then, he had stepped closer, his movements unhurried, his gaze never wavering from hers. "Tell me, Isla," he had murmured, his voice like velvet and sin. "Do you always watch strangers from across the room?"

She had inhaled sharply, her pulse betraying her as his words curled around her like smoke.

"I wasn't watching you," she had lied.

A quiet chuckle. "Of course you weren't."

She should have walked away then. Should have ended the conversation before she got caught in something she couldn't escape.

But she hadn't.

Because even then, before she had known what it meant to crave something forbidden, before she had realized just how dangerous Damian Sinclair truly was...

She had already been his.

Damian Sinclair never believed in fate.

He built his empire on calculated risks, ruthless decisions, and an unwavering belief that power belonged to those who seized it. He didn't wait for opportunities-he created them. And he certainly didn't waste time contemplating things like destiny.

But then he met her.

It had started like a whisper, something subtle yet insistent, a pull he hadn't been able to ignore. The moment he saw Isla, something inside him shifted. He wasn't the kind of man to romanticize emotions-he understood attraction, knew how to manipulate desire, and had long since mastered the art of detachment.

And yet, Isla had disrupted that balance.

The first time he saw her, she was standing on that damn balcony, looking out at the city as if she belonged to it. The soft glow of the skyline reflected against her skin, turning her into something untouchable. Something he shouldn't want.

But Damian had always wanted what he shouldn't have.

That night, the ballroom had been filled with powerful men and women-billionaires, politicians, heirs to fortunes built on ruthless ambition. It was the kind of event where alliances were formed and enemies disguised themselves as friends. A battlefield, dressed in elegance and deception.

Damian thrived in these spaces.

But for the first time, he found himself distracted.

By her.

He had been listening to a conversation he had little interest in when he first noticed her. She was across the room, wearing a midnight-blue gown that hugged her curves in a way that was both effortless and devastating. She wasn't trying to stand out, yet she did-her presence was a quiet kind of power, drawing people toward her without even trying.

He watched as she smiled politely at someone, her expression schooled into the perfect mask of indifference. But Damian saw the small tells-the way her fingers tapped restlessly against the champagne flute in her hand, the slight tension in her posture. She didn't want to be here.

Neither did he.

So when she disappeared onto the balcony, away from the suffocating expectations of the event, Damian followed.

It was reckless, he knew that. But he hadn't stopped himself.

Because something about Isla had called to him.

She hadn't noticed him at first, too lost in her own thoughts as she leaned against the railing, staring at the city below. The wind had lifted a strand of her dark hair, and before he could stop himself, he wanted to touch it.

"Tell me, Isla," he had murmured, stepping into the night air. "Do you always watch strangers from across the room?"

She turned sharply, startled by his sudden presence. But then her gaze met his, and something flickered in her expression. Recognition. Awareness.

"I wasn't watching you," she said, her voice steady.

A lie.

Damian smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Of course you weren't."

She narrowed her eyes, her lips pressing together as if debating whether to walk away or entertain his presence.

"You're Damian Sinclair." Her voice was cool, impassive.

He arched a brow. "And you're Isla."

Surprise flashed across her face before she quickly masked it. "You know my name."

He stepped closer, just enough to test the tension between them. "I make it a habit to know the people worth knowing."

She scoffed, shaking her head. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

He chuckled, intrigued by the way she wasn't falling into the usual pattern. Most people either sought his approval or feared his presence. Isla did neither.

It made her dangerous.

And Damian had always been drawn to danger.

"You don't belong here," he said, watching her carefully.

She stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"These events." He gestured toward the glittering ballroom behind them. "You wear the mask well, but you don't enjoy it."

Something in her expression shifted. "And you do?"

Damian exhaled, glancing briefly at the city skyline before returning his gaze to her. "I enjoy the power that comes with it."

She studied him for a long moment, as if trying to determine if he was being honest. Then, to his surprise, she smiled.

Not the polite, practiced smile he had seen her give others that night. But a real one.

"And here I thought you were just another arrogant billionaire," she said, a teasing edge to her voice.

He smirked. "Oh, I am. But I'm also right."

She shook her head, but there was amusement in her eyes now. "You don't know me, Damian."

"Not yet," he murmured, holding her gaze.

Something passed between them then-an unspoken acknowledgment of whatever this was. A connection neither of them wanted to name.

For the first time in a long time, Damian felt something unfamiliar.

Intrigue.

Need.

A dangerous want.

He didn't believe in fate.

But in that moment, standing on a balcony with Isla, he began to wonder if some things were inevitable.