Chapter 2 Firestorm

Brooklyn – 9:17 p.m.

The man in the doorway wasn't just a threat.

He was a ghost.

Brandon Keller stood with one boot on the threshold, his face half-shadowed beneath a wet hoodie. The glint of metal at his waist wasn't subtle-it was deliberate. A warning. A weapon. A declaration.

Isla's breath caught, fingers tightening around the hem of Damien's shirt. Her heart galloped as if her body already knew what her mind refused to believe-he had found her again.

"Get behind me," Damien growled.

Isla didn't move. "Damien, don't."

Brandon cocked his head, amused. "This him? The billionaire bastard you crawled into bed with?"

"Leave," Damien barked, stepping forward.

Brandon chuckled. "You don't give the orders here, Wall Street. I'm here for my woman."

"You lost that right the second you put your hands on her," Damien said, voice a whip of rage.

Brandon's smile fell.

And then he drew the gun.

9:18 p.m.

Time fractured.

Isla screamed. Damien lunged. The gun fired once-twice.

Chaos.

The window behind them shattered, glass raining down like deadly snow. Isla ducked, clutching her belly. Damien tackled Brandon against the doorframe, their bodies crashing into the hallway like bulls in a cage.

"You son of a-" Damien roared, fists flying.

Brandon grunted as knuckles cracked his jaw, but managed to slam Damien against the wall with a thud that rattled plaster. The gun skidded across the hardwood, landing near Isla.

Her eyes locked on it.

Blood roared in her ears.

She scrambled.

Brandon saw her.

"Don't touch it, bitch!"

Damien surged forward and drove his knee into Brandon's gut. Brandon gasped-and Isla grabbed the gun with shaking fingers.

"STOP!" she screamed, aiming it with both hands.

The men froze.

Damien's chest heaved, blood dripping from his temple.

Brandon's lip curled. "You gonna shoot me, sweetheart?"

Isla's eyes narrowed. "Try me."

For one beat, no one moved.

Then Brandon spat blood on the floor and backed toward the door. "This isn't over. You belong to me."

"No," she whispered, voice hard. "Not anymore."

Brandon vanished into the storm.

9:45 p.m. – NYPD Precinct

"What do you mean he's not in custody?" Damien slammed his hand on the desk.

Detective Ruiz flinched but held his ground. "He fled before patrol arrived. No prints. No vehicle. Your girlfriend fired no shots, so-technically-we have no assault."

"He broke in. He threatened her and the baby. He had a gun!"

"And she pointed one back. With no permit," the detective added. "So we've got mutual aggression, no injuries, and a missing suspect. You want more? Get me evidence."

Damien's jaw clenched. "I'll get you his head."

"Try not to. Courts prefer evidence over decapitation," Ruiz said flatly. "We've flagged her address and requested patrols. But Keller's smart. Slippery. Next time, we need more than bruises and witness anger."

Damien turned to Isla, who sat silently beside him.

She hadn't spoken since the precinct lights began buzzing overhead.

He crouched beside her, voice gentler. "We'll protect you. I swear it."

Her eyes were glassy. "I can't do this again, Damien. He almost killed you."

He reached for her hand. "He didn't. And he won't."

"But what if he comes back?"

"Then I'll be ready."

11:08 p.m. - Damien's Midtown Penthouse

Silence.

Not the warm kind.

The cold, paralyzing sort that settled into bones and whispered of danger in the dark.

Isla stood by the window, arms wrapped around herself, watching headlights smear across the windows like ghosts. Her phone buzzed once-she didn't look.

Damien approached slowly, two glasses in hand.

"I thought you might need this."

She took the glass with a trembling nod. "Thanks."

They drank in silence for a beat.

Then she said, "You shouldn't be part of this."

"You think I'd walk away now?"

"I think you should."

Damien set his glass down. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't expect you. But I don't run."

She looked at him then. Really looked.

And something cracked open inside her.

"I'm not the kind of woman who fits into your world."

"Then I'll burn down the parts that don't."

Midnight

They lay side-by-side on his bed. No touching. Just breathing.

But the air between them was thick. Tangled with unspoken things.

"Why him?" Damien asked softly. "Why Brandon?"

Isla sighed. "He wasn't always like that. We met when I was nineteen. He was charming. Attentive. He made me feel... seen."

"And then?"

"Then he broke me piece by piece. Isolation. Jealousy. Threats. By the time he hit me, I was too numb to leave. When I finally ran, I changed my name, my job, my life."

"And then I found you," Damien murmured.

"I didn't want to fall again," she whispered. "But you made it feel... safe."

He reached for her hand. "Then let's make it safe."

She let him hold her.

Just for tonight.

Next Morning - 8:00 a.m.

Isla sat at the dining table, scrolling her phone.

Three missed calls. One from a blocked number. One voicemail.

She put it on speaker.

> "You think that rich prick can protect you? You think the cops care about your lies? I see everything. I know where you sleep, Isla. I own you. Tick tock."

She dropped the phone, hand shaking.

Damien walked in, shirtless, holding two coffees. "Everything okay?"

She didn't answer.

But the voicemail kept playing.

And Damien heard it.

His eyes darkened. "He's done."

"Damien-"

"No. I don't care what it takes. He dies or disappears."

Isla stood. "If you kill him, you go to prison. Our child loses a father. I lose you."

He stared at her, chest heaving.

Then he slammed his fist into the table.

"Then we make him disappear the right way."

48 Hours Later – Damien's Private Security HQ

"You want surveillance, tracking, and a public smear campaign," said Mia Torres, Damien's head of security.

"Anything less?"

"No." She leaned back. "My team's already inside Keller's phone. He's sloppy. We've got burner numbers, encrypted apps, and access to three fake addresses in Queens. He's mobile. But not careful."

"Find him. Bleed his finances. Destroy his network. And put a tail on Isla 24/7."

Mia grinned. "You always did know how to win wars, boss."

"This isn't war. It's personal."

That Evening – Rooftop Garden

Isla sat among the roses on Damien's penthouse terrace, sipping tea, sunlight touching her skin. For a moment, the city felt distant.

He joined her in silence.

"I keep waiting to wake up," she whispered.

"You're awake."

"Am I?" She turned. "This-us-it feels like fiction. You're a billionaire. I'm just..."

"You're mine."

Her breath caught.

"You don't have to fix me," she said softly.

"I don't want to fix you," he replied. "I want to build something with you."

Then he knelt.

Her heart stopped.

But instead of a ring, he pulled out a small, black velvet box.

Inside: a vintage silver pendant. Engraved with R+I.

Isla blinked. "What is this?"

"My mother's. She gave it to me before she died. Told me to give it to the woman who made me believe again."

Tears filled her eyes. "Damien..."

"I'm not proposing. Not yet. But I'm not walking away either."

She clutched the pendant to her chest.

And kissed him.

Midnight – Damien's Penthouse

They made love again.

Not rushed. Not ravenous. But slow. Intentional. A language of bodies learning each other. Her hand traced every scar. His mouth learned every tremor.

And when she whispered, "I trust you," against his skin, something broke in him.

Something rebuilt, stronger.

2:12 a.m. - Outside the Building

A man watched through binoculars from across the street.

Brandon Keller smirked.

Pulled out his burner phone.

And sent one final message.

> See you soon, lover.

Then he lit the phone on fire, dropped it in a sewer grate, and vanished into the shadows.