Chapter 351: Wine, Tears, and an Unwanted Love Triangle

She looked at me as if I’d just offered to sell her a bridge. "...Wine."

"Sure thing."

I led her inside, shut the door, and tried not to dwell on how ridiculous my afternoon had turned.

Just minutes ago, I’d been contemplating a second cup of coffee, and now I was playing host to Isabella Sommers in my boyfriend’s penthouse while she glared at me like I had singlehandedly derailed her entire romantic future.

Maybe I should’ve charged her a fee for showing up.

As I poured her a glass of wine, she strolled into the living room, taking in the furniture and the sprawling city views.

She stopped by the coffee table, where my lecture notes mixed with a psychology textbook, a half-finished mug of coffee, and the remote control that Damien insisted I kept losing, despite the fact that I had never misplaced it beyond the sofa.

Her gaze landed on the dark hoodie draped over the armchair.

Damien’s hoodie, technically, though I had claimed it so completely that I considered it a shared household item.

Then she noticed the books piled next to the sofa, the blanket draped over the backrest, and the second pair of slippers near the entrance.

None of that was particularly remarkable, but together they painted a picture that the glossy photos online could never convey.

I didn’t just visit this place.

I belonged here.

When I returned with a tray of her wine, Isabella was standing by the windows, staring out at the city with an expression that had softened a bit from before.

I handed her the glass, and she took it without a thanks.

But that’s what I got for trying to be hospitable for no reason, I guess.

We settled on opposite ends of the couch, and the silence stretched out between us, awkward like an unwanted guest who had overstayed their welcome.

I went back to my notes, though I wasn’t really reading anymore, while Isabella sipped her wine and occasionally glanced around the room.

The longer she stayed, the less angry she seemed, and the more uncomfortable she looked.

Eventually, she spoke without glancing my way.

"So this is why."

I put my pen down. "Why what?"

"Why he never gave a damn about me."

Her voice had changed.

The bitterness remained, but it had grown quieter, worn down by something that sounded suspiciously like disappointment.

"I’ve met Damien at charity events, dinners, and business functions for more than a year," she continued. "My parents kept telling me that he was probably just reserved, that he needed time, that once the arrangement became official, he would eventually warm up to me."

She laughed, but there was no humour in it. "He barely looked at me. Sometimes I wondered whether he even remembered my name."

I didn’t know what to say to that, mostly because I suspected Damien could be remarkably inconsiderate when he had already decided that something wasn’t worth his attention.

He could make a person feel invisible without raising his voice or doing anything particularly dramatic, which was probably more frustrating than being openly rejected.

Still, I felt a reluctant sympathy for her.

"Can I ask you something?" I said carefully.

She turned her head, looking wary.

"Do you actually like Damien?" I asked.

Her eyebrows rose. "Of course I do. He’s Damien freaking Lockwood. I’ve have to be crazy not to like him."

I waited.

She looked irritated by my silence, then let out a breath and sank farther into the sofa.

"That sounded ridiculous, didn’t it?"

"A little."

"You’re supposed to reassure me."

"I’ve been told I’m terrible at doing that."

For the first time since she had arrived, a faint, unwilling smile touched her mouth before disappearing again.

She stared into her wine.

"I liked him on paper before my parents told me about the arrangement. I thought he was handsome, obviously, and powerful, and there was something about him that made everyone else in a room seem..." She searched for the word, her fingers tightening around the stem of the glass. "Less interesting."

I could agree to that.

I couldn’t help thinking that this was probably how Damien acquired half his problems.

People saw the suit, the money, the icy eyes, and the intimidating silence, then built an entire fantasy around him without considering that the man underneath might simply be difficult to have a conversation with.

"I spent a year trying to get him to notice me," Isabella continued. "I made excuses to speak to him at events. I asked questions about his work. I even watched interviews about his company so I would have something to talk about, and do you know how boring those interviews are?"

"Painfully," I admitted. "I’ve fallen asleep during many of those when seeing them on TV over the years."

She stared at me, then gave a short laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob.

"When my parents told me the marriage had been arranged, I was genuinely excited. I thought perhaps he was simply waiting for the right time, or that he wasn’t the sort of man who would show affection in public. I thought I would have a chance to get to know him properly when we married."

Her eyes glistened, and she quickly looked away.

"Then I saw those photographs of you together. I thought they were rumours at first, but now..." She glanced around the penthouse again, and the last of her composure began to crumble. "Now I understand why he never gave a damn about me. He already had someone else."

She tried to laugh, but the sound broke halfway through. "Fuck..."

I watched her struggle to regain control, her shoulders stiffening as she blinked rapidly, clearly furious with herself for allowing me to witness her humiliation.

When the first tear slipped down her cheek, she wiped it away so quickly that I pretended not to notice, although the second one followed before she could stop it.

It wasn’t a dramatic breakdown, and she didn’t throw her glass or accuse me of stealing her man or something.

She simply sat there, looking painfully young beneath all that polish, while the reality of a future she had imagined collapsed around her.

I felt terrible.

Not guilty for loving Damien, and certainly not guilty for living in a home where he had invited me to stay, but sorry that she had been encouraged to invest her hopes in a man who had never offered her the same promise.

"I’m...I’m sorry," I said quietly.

She gave me a watery, disbelieving look. "For what? Stealing my future husband?"

Yikes, what a way to put it.

"No. For the position you’ve been put in." I reached for the box of tissues on the side table and handed it to her. "You deserved to know the truth before your family made you believe you were going to marry someone who hadn’t chosen you."

She took a tissue and dabbed at her cheeks, careful not to ruin the makeup that had probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

"You don’t have to be nice to me," she muttered.

"I know."

"Then why are you?"

I considered the question for a moment.

"Because you’re upset, and being cruel to you won’t really do much to solve anything."

She stared at me, apparently offended by the bluntness, before letting out another small, miserable laugh.

"You really are different from what I expected."

"I’ve been told I’m disappointing in several unexpected ways."

That earned me the smallest genuine smile yet, although it faded as she looked down at her wine.

After a few minutes, she pressed the tissue beneath her eyes and drew a careful breath when she checked her reflection on a small mirror in her purse.

"My makeup is all messed up...where’s your bathroom?"

I stood and gestured towards the hallway. "The second door on the left. There’s a guest bathroom beside it, if you’d prefer more privacy."

She nodded and rose, taking her handbag with her.

"Thanks," she murmured, so quietly that I nearly missed it.

I watched her disappear down the hallway before sinking back onto the sofa, letting out a long breath that I felt I had been holding since the moment I opened the front door.

I had wanted a quiet afternoon.

Apparently, the universe had interpreted that as a personal challenge.

The sound of the entrance unlocking came a few minutes later, and I looked up just as Damien stepped inside, removing one glove while his gaze moved over the living room.