Isabella POV
I'd changed my outfit three times before settling on the charcoal gray Armani suit, severe enough to project authority, tailored enough to remind anyone looking that I was still very much a woman. The skirt hit just above my knees, professional but not nun-like, and the jacket was cut to emphasize my waist while maintaining boardroom respectability.
Why the hell am I thinking about how I look?
Because in twenty minutes, I would come face to face with Damien Cross. The boy who'd taught me what desire felt like. The man who wanted to destroy everything I'd inherited.
Conference room A had been prepared with military precision. Marcus had arranged for our best negotiation team to be present, Victoria from finance, two senior lawyers, and Henry as board chairman. Water glasses gleamed on the polished table, legal documents were stacked in perfect piles, and the late afternoon sun streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a commanding view of the city.
My city. My father's city. The kingdom Damien wanted to tear down brick by brick.
"They're here," Marcus said, appearing in the doorway with the kind of expression that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else. "Cross Enterprises delegation just arrived. Security is escorting them up."
My pulse kicked into a rhythm that had nothing to do with business nerves and everything to do with the memory of dark hair and darker eyes, of hands that had mapped my body with reverent precision seven years ago.
Focus, Isabella. This is war, not a reunion.
"How many?" I asked, grateful that my voice remained steady.
"Five. Legal counsel, financial analyst, two negotiators, and..." Marcus paused, consulting his tablet. "Damien Cross himself."
Of course he'd come personally. This wasn't just business for him any more than it was for me. This was about settling old scores, about looking your enemy in the eye when you delivered the killing blow.
I took my place at the head of the table, the chair my father had occupied for thirty years now mine by right of inheritance and necessity. The symbolism wasn't lost on me, I was literally sitting in the seat of the man who'd betrayed Damien, about to face the consequences of choices I'd never even known were made.
"Send them in," I said.
The door opened, and Marcus stepped aside to let the Cross Enterprises team enter. I'd steeled myself for this moment, had rehearsed my reaction in the mirror until I was certain I could maintain my composure no matter what.
I wasn't prepared for him.
Damien Cross walked into my father's boardroom like he owned it, like he owned everything in it, including me. Seven years had transformed the hungry young man I'd known into something altogether more dangerous, a predator in a three-thousand-dollar suit, with the kind of presence that made the air itself seem to bend around him.
He was taller than I remembered, broader through the shoulders, his dark hair shorter and perfectly styled in a way that probably cost more than most people's rent. The sharp angles of his face had hardened, carved by success and what I suspected had been considerable pain. But those eyes... those steel-gray eyes that had once looked at me like I was the answer to every prayer he'd ever whispered... those eyes were cold as winter stone.
And they were fixed on me with the intensity of a man who'd been planning this moment for years.
Breathe, Isabella. Just breathe.
But breathing became impossible when he smiled. It was a slow, predatory curve of lips that held no warmth, no recognition of what we'd once meant to each other. It was the smile of a man who'd come to collect a debt, and didn't particularly care about collateral damage.
"Ms. Sterling," he said, his voice deeper than I remembered, roughened by time and circumstance. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with us."
The formal address hit me like a slap. No acknowledgment of our history, no flicker of the boy who'd once called me bella and whispered poetry against my skin. Just cold, professional courtesy that somehow felt more intimate than if he'd kissed me.
"Mr. Cross," I replied, proud that my voice didn't shake. "Please, have a seat."
He moved with fluid grace to the chair directly across from me, his team flanking him like well-dressed sharks. The table suddenly felt impossibly narrow, as if I could reach across and touch him if I dared. As if the seven years between our last conversation had collapsed into nothing.
Don't you dare remember. Don't you dare feel anything but anger.
But my body had other ideas. Heat pooled low in my belly as I watched him settle into his chair, the expensive fabric of his suit stretching across muscles that definitely hadn't been there when he was twenty-five. His hands, God, those hands that had once explored every inch of my body, rested casually on the table, long fingers relaxed but somehow predatory.
"I believe you've reviewed our preliminary offer," he said, and the way he said 'offer' made it clear he knew exactly how insulting it was.
"I have." I leaned back in my chair, trying to project the kind of confidence my father would have shown. "Eighteen percent over market value for a company that's been in my family for three generations. Generous, but ultimately irrelevant."
Something flickered in those gray eyes, surprise, maybe, or approval. "Irrelevant?"
"Sterling Industries isn't for sale, Mr. Cross. Not to you, not to anyone."
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut. Around the table, lawyers and analysts shifted uncomfortably, but Damien never moved, never looked away from my face. He was studying me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve, and the intensity of his attention made my skin feel too tight.
"Not even to save it?" he asked quietly.
The question hit like a physical blow because we both knew Sterling Industries was dying. The financial reports he'd undoubtedly seen made that clear, we were hemorrhaging money, losing clients, three months from bankruptcy if something didn't change soon.
"Save it?" I laughed, and the sound was sharper than I'd intended. "Is that what you call corporate raids now? Salvation?"
His smile widened, and for just a moment I caught a glimpse of the boy I'd known, the one who'd been charmed by my sharp tongue and sharper mind.
"I prefer to think of it as... restructuring," he said. "Sterling Industries has good bones, solid infrastructure. With the right management, it could be profitable again."
The right management. Meaning him, not me.
"And what makes you think Cross Enterprises is qualified to manage Sterling Industries?" I asked, leaning forward slightly. The movement brought me closer to him, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne, something expensive and masculine that made my pulse skip.
"Experience," he said simply. "We've successfully acquired and restructured dozens of companies over the past five years. Our track record speaks for itself."
Your track record of destroying everything you touch.
But that wasn't fair, and I knew it. The files Marcus had compiled on Cross Enterprises showed a company that was ruthlessly efficient but not unnecessarily cruel. They acquired struggling businesses, stripped away inefficiencies, and either restored them to profitability or harvested their assets with surgical precision.
It should have been reassuring. Instead, it was terrifying, because it meant Damien had become exactly what my father had always feared, someone powerful enough to threaten Sterling Industries, smart enough to succeed, and cold enough to do whatever was necessary.
"Your track record," I said carefully, "suggests that Cross Enterprises has little interest in preserving family legacies."
Something dark flashed across his features, pain, maybe, or old anger finally finding an outlet.
"Family legacies," he repeated, and the way he said it made the words sound like profanity. "Tell me, Ms. Sterling, what exactly is Sterling Industries' legacy? What noble contribution has your family made to the world?"
The question was loaded with enough venom to kill, and I felt my temper flare in response. How dare he sit in my father's boardroom and question everything we'd built?
"Sterling Industries has employed thousands of people over three generations," I said, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay calm. "We've built schools, hospitals, housing developments that have housed families for decades. We've contributed millions to charity, supported local businesses, created something lasting and meaningful."
"Built on what foundation?" he asked quietly, and the question hit me like ice water.
Because I knew. God help me, I knew exactly what foundation Sterling Industries had been built on, at least partially. The technology Damien had developed, the revolutionary designs my father had somehow acquired after Damien's sudden departure.
The stolen foundation that had made everything else possible.
"I think," I said carefully, "that's enough ancient history for one meeting."
But Damien wasn't done. He leaned forward, closing the distance between us until I could see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes, could count the faint lines that stress and success had carved around them.
"Ancient history," he murmured, and his voice was soft enough that only I could hear it. "Is that what you call it, bella?"
The nickname hit me like a physical blow. Bella. Beautiful. The name he'd whispered against my skin in moonlight, the name that had made me feel precious and desired and worthy of love.
Now it sounded like a weapon.
"Don't," I whispered, my carefully constructed composure cracking. "Don't you dare."
"Don't what?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "Don't remember? Don't acknowledge what your family stole from me? Or don't call you by the name you once begged me to whisper when I was inside you?"
The words were quiet enough that the others couldn't hear, but they hit me like a shout. Heat flooded my cheeks, and something low in my belly clenched with unwanted memory and impossible desire.
How dare he bring that up here, now, in front of everyone?
"You bastard," I breathed.
His smile was sharp as a blade. "Careful, princess. Your mask is slipping."
And it was. Seven years of careful control, of burying the girl who'd loved him, of pretending that his disappearance hadn't broken something fundamental inside me, all of it was crumbling under the weight of his presence and the reminder of what we'd once been to each other.
"Gentlemen," I said, addressing his team without taking my eyes off Damien. "Would you mind giving Mr. Cross and me a moment to discuss this privately?"
The lawyers and analysts exchanged glances, but they filed out obediently, leaving us alone in the conference room with nothing but glass walls and seven years of unfinished business between us.
The moment the door closed, the temperature in the room seemed to spike. We stared at each other across the polished table, two people who'd once known every secret the other possessed, now sitting on opposite sides of a war neither of us had chosen but both of us intended to win.
"Hello, Damien," I said quietly.
"Hello, Isabella." His voice was softer now, almost gentle, and for a heartbeat I could pretend this was just a reunion between old friends instead of the opening move in a battle that would destroy one of us.
Then he spoke again, and the illusion shattered.
"I told you I'd come back for you someday. I just didn't mention I'd be coming to destroy everything you love when I did."