When History Knocks

Damien’s POV

The ding came again. Sharp. Insistent. A reminder that no matter how tightly I tried to lock down my world, Cleo would always find a way in.

I turned to Isabella—no, Ariana now. My voice cut through the air like a blade.

“You’re my fiancée. From today henceforth, you sleep in my bed.”

Her lips parted. Confusion flickered in her wide, glassy eyes.

“If you want to live,” I added, softer but deadlier, “you follow my rules. Understood?”

She nodded. Hesitantly. Slowly. The same way someone nods at a loaded gun.

The sound of the doorbell echoed through the penthouse like a shotgun blast.

I didn’t move, still studied her carefully. What if she tries something funny. But she didn’t.

Isabella’s lips parted slightly, breath trembling. I could see her calculating—whether to run, whether to hide, whether she could make it to the balcony and throw herself over the edge if it meant escaping the madness she’d been dragged into.

But I was already walking.

Every step toward the door was like walking into a storm I’d barely contained for years. I could feel the winds shift, taste the electricity. This wasn’t going to be a negotiation. It was going to be a war.

I exhaled once. Then unlocked the door.

And there she was.

Cleo stood in the hallway like she owned it—like she always had. Fancy heels, red lips curled in that same infuriating smirk she wore the night she walked out of my life without looking back.

“Nice locks,” she purred. “Shame they only work on doors, not history.”

“Cleo,” I said flatly.

“Damien.” Her voice dripped sarcasm and smoke. “You redecorated. Swanky. Cold. Very you.”

She stepped in without invitation, her heels clicking across marble like gunshots.

“I really don’t know why you chose to be here, Cleo. But you won’t stay for long,” I muttered, locking the door behind her.

She gave me a look. “Please. You’ve never minded when I barged into your room at night. Uninvited. Thought you'd be used to that by now.”

Then she turned—eyes scanning the room.

And she saw her.

Isabella was still on the couch, wrapped in a blanket like a porcelain doll someone had forgotten how to play with.

Cleo tilted her head. Smirked wider. “Well well,” she drawled, letting her purse fall onto the side table. “So this is the new prototype?”

“Excuse me?” Ariana snapped before she could stop herself.

I stepped forward fast. “Cleo, you’re just here on business—”

Her eyes flicked down to Isabella. Accessing. Weighing her. She noticed the bandaged hand, the oversized robe, the mess of soft curls around Isabella’s flushed face.

Then she turned back to me.

“Didn’t know you were into rescuing wounded birds now, Damien. Or is this some kind of… revenge fantasy? You always did have a thing for damsels in distress.”

“This is Ariana,” I said flatly. “My fiancée.”

Cleo froze for half a second.

Then she laughed. Cold. Sharp.

“Fiancée? Wow. You always move this fast, or did I really break you that bad?”

“Careful,” I warned.

But she was already walking toward Isabella, the smile never reaching her eyes.

“Ariana, is it? That’s… sweet.” She reached out as if to shake her hand, but her gaze lingered on the bandage. “Hope you’ve got a high pain tolerance. Being with Damien tends to come with… complications. I should know better.”

Isabella stiffened, her eyes darting to mine.

“Don’t worry,” Cleo said sweetly, lowering her hand. “I’m the ex. You’re the current. Let’s not get our titles confused.”

“Trust me,” Isabella replied softly, her voice ice-wrapped velvet, “I never do.”

The way she got into character immediately took me by surprise. I didn’t know if to be excited or anxious.

Cleo’s smile twitched. Just enough for me to see the hairline crack beneath it.

She turned back to me. “Well. Isn’t she a little sparkplug? I like her already.”

“Don’t.” I stepped forward, my voice darkening. “Don’t play games here, Cleo. That part of our history is over.”

“Oh, baby.” She arched her brow. “If I’m here, the game’s just beginning.”

She dropped her overnight bag by the couch and turned to me. “Something happened with the logistics. My luggage will be arriving tomorrow.”

Then she glanced at Isabella again. “Hope you don’t mind sharing. Damien’s bed’s always been big enough for two.”

“Not anymore,” I growled.

Cleo’s lips parted as if to fire another jab—but then something flickered in her eyes. Just for a moment. Something raw. Bitter. Gone before I could name it.

She tilted her chin toward Isabella, ignoring me. “I’m sure you won’t mind, little girl. Right?” She taunted.

Isabella stood.

I saw it again—the shift. The second she stopped feeling cornered and started deciding to fight.

“Careful,” Isabella said, stepping out from behind the couch, standing tall. “I might not have your pedigree, but I’m the one he wakes up next to. I’m the one in this penthouse now. So if you're here to peacock, you can turn around and strut the hell out.”

Cleo laughed. A sound like silk unraveling on broken glass.

“Oh, honey,” she said, sauntering closer. “You’re not in this penthouse. You’re on loan. A placeholder. A distraction. Something to keep his bed and his cock warm while he figures out how to get back what he really wants.”

“Funny,” Isabella shot back, voice trembling with effort. “He had you. And he left you. That doesn’t make you look like something he wants to me. That looks like someone he escaped.”

Cleo’s smile vanished like a flame smothered by wind.

She stepped in close—too close—and I could feel the temperature shift. The kind of shift that happens right before a storm breaks.

“I helped him build this empire,” Cleo hissed, eyes locked on Isabella’s. “I hold his secrets. Know his sins. He bled for me. Fought for me. Would’ve razed entire cities if I whispered it. You think some fresh little face and a robe make you a queen?”

“I don’t need a crown,” Isabella replied, chin tilting defiantly. “I am one. With or without your approval.”

Cleo leaned forward, voice a whisper laced with venom. “Then act like one. Because queens don’t cry when the castle burns—they set it on fire themselves.”

“Ladies,” I barked, stepping between them. “Enough.”

But they didn’t move. Their eyes were locked. Two storms colliding.

Something about the way Isabella got into character real quick made me warm and happy. A huge part of me wished we could have something real.

Cleo straightened, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle on her blouse. Her tone turned icy, professional.

“Good luck, sweetheart. He makes a wonderful liar. You’ll learn.”

And with that, she disappeared down the hallway like she owns the place, her scent and venom trailing behind her like a storm cloud.

Isabella didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

But I knew what she was thinking.

And I knew exactly how dangerous the next four months were going to be.

Not because of the agency.

Not because of Osmond.

Because of her. Cleo. The girl who once carved my heart in half—and now lived down the hall from the woman I was trying to convince was mine.

Hell had officially unpacked its bags.