Married To My Ex's Ruthless Father

Isabella's Pov

I don't know why I kept talking to him. Maybe it was because he didn't look at me with pity. For the first time in hours, someone saw me as a real person instead of a problem.

We talked for almost two hours. I didn't go deep into my mess or say Ethan's name. We just talked about small things. How the New York skyline looked beautiful at night from the hotel. How he hated fake small talk at big parties. How I used to love making business plans but never wanted to be in the spotlight. He listened like every word mattered. His voice was low and calm, but I could feel a deep loneliness underneath that matched mine that night.

"You're not from New York originally," he said, looking at my face carefully.

"I'm from Chicago," I replied. "But I've been here for years because of... him." I stopped myself. "It doesn't matter anymore."

Damien leaned back and swirled the last of his whiskey. "Everyone has a 'him' or 'her' story. The main thing is not letting them destroy you completely."

I smiled sadly. "I think it might be too late for that."

He tilted his head. "Why do you say that? You still seem like you have some fight left. Most people in your situation would be on the phone crying to friends or planning how to get back at him. But you're here talking about the skyline and work like you're trying to remember who you were before tonight."

I let out a small breath and shrugged. "Maybe I am. It feels like everything I worked for just got thrown back in my face. Do you ever feel that way? Like you built something important but it turned out to be for the wrong person?"

Damien's gray eyes softened a little. "More than you'd think. I built Blackwood Holdings from nothing. Lots of long nights and hard choices that cost me more than I like to say. But success can leave you feeling empty sometimes. What about you? What kind of work did you enjoy the most?"

I thought for a second, surprised he really wanted to know. "Investor pitches mostly. Taking messy ideas and making them clear so people would believe in them. It felt creative, like solving a puzzle. But I never wanted to stand in front of everyone. That part always scared me."

He nodded slowly. "Smart. Too many people chase the attention and forget the real work. I hate those galas for the same reason. Everyone smiles and says empty things. 'How's business, Damien?' They don't care. They just want to be seen with me. If things were different tonight, what would you rather be doing?"

I sipped my sparkling water, feeling a tiny bit better. "Something simple. Walk in Central Park, get coffee and write ideas on a napkin. Or stay home with a good book. No pressure. What about you? How do you relax when you're not running everything?"

A small smile touched his lips, but it didn't stay. "Relax? I haven't done much of that in years. I read reports late at night or look over contracts. Sometimes I drive out of the city to think without my phone ringing. My wife used to take me to quiet dinners or art shows. After she passed, those things didn't feel the same."

"I'm sorry," I said gently. "That must be really hard. Losing someone who balanced you."

He looked at me for a long moment. "It changes you. Makes you colder maybe. People say I control things too much now."

Damien put his glass down. "Every day. My son thinks he knows everything about business, but he has no idea about real pressure. Families make things complicated. They expect you to always be strong. But sitting here with you... it's been a long time since I had a real talk with no hidden reasons."

I felt my cheeks get warm under his steady look. "Same for me. You're not what I expected. The magazines make you sound scary, like you're always ten steps ahead."

"Maybe I am," he said with a low chuckle. "But tonight I'm just a man having a drink with an interesting woman who won't fall apart. That takes strength, Isabella. Most people would already be asking me for money, advice, or a job. Why aren't you?"

"Because favors always come with strings," I said honestly. "And I'm tired of strings. I gave six years to someone who promised the world and gave me nothing but pain. I need to figure this out on my own, even if it's scary. Especially with the baby coming."

He leaned forward a bit. "The baby does change things. You need stability and a plan. Have you thought about what you'll do next week or next month?"

"Not really," I confessed. "Everything feels blurry right now. The morning sickness is bad, and my mind keeps replaying the fight. He said I was just support, like I didn't matter. Do you think people can change that fast? Or was he always like this and I just ignored the signs?"

"People rarely change," Damien said quietly. "They just stop pretending. You saw the real him tonight. It hurts, but it's better than living a lie. You deserve more than being someone's secret helper."

His words felt kind even though they were direct.

Time passed until I felt the tiredness hitting me hard.

"I should go," I said eventually, standing on shaky legs. The pregnancy exhaustion was really hitting me.

He stood up too, towering over me. "It's late. My driver will take you home."

"That's really not necessary..."

"It wasn't a request." His tone made it clear there was no point arguing.

Before I could push back, his phone rang. He checked the screen and his jaw tightened. "Give me a moment."

He stepped aside for the call. When he came back, his face looked even colder. "Plans changed. You're staying here tonight. My suite has a spare room."

I blinked in shock. "Mr. Blackwood, I can't just.."

"Damien," he corrected firmly. Then, softer: "You look ready to collapse, Isabella. Let me handle this one thing tonight."

I was too drained to fight. I nodded.

As we headed to the private elevator, his hand lightly touched the small of my back, protective, nothing more. But it sent an unexpected shiver through me.

Just as the doors slid shut, his phone buzzed again. He read the message and went completely still.

His eyes locked on mine, sharp and probing. "Tell me something," he said, voice low and serious. "What's the name of the man who did this to you?"

My stomach sank. I hadn't mentioned Ethan at all.

Before I could answer, the elevator dinged open on the penthouse floor.