Chapter 8 - The Ruin of Isabella Russo
By midnight, the storm had passed, leaving behind clean, cold air that washed over Manhattan.
In the interrogation room of the NYPD’s First Precinct, Isabella sat handcuffed to a metal table. Her expensive clothes were ruined, her hair matted, her manic energy completely broken.
Dominic stood on the other side of the one-way glass, watching her alongside the Assistant District Attorney and Natalie. Natalie was pale, her fingers interlaced tightly with Dominic’s—a gesture that had happened naturally when they arrived at the station and neither of them had let go.
“She won't see daylight for twenty years,” the ADA said, tapping a thick stack of binders on the counter. “Attempted kidnapping, felony stalking, violation of federal bail, corporate espionage, and wire fraud. Her lawyers tried to offer a plea deal. We rejected it outright.”
Natalie stared through the glass at the woman who had orchestrated her ruin five years ago. There was no hatred left in her heart, only an immense, profound relief. The ghost that had haunted her life, forced her into hiding, and made her question her own sanity was finally locked behind iron bars.
“Thank you,” Natalie said quietly to the prosecutor.
The ADA nodded respectfully and stepped out, leaving Dominic and Natalie alone in the dim observation room.
Dominic turned to look at her. The exhaustion on his face was evident, but his eyes were clearer than they had been in five long years.
“Oliver fell asleep in the car on the way back,” Dominic said softly. “He was still holding your shoe.”
Natalie let out a faint, tender laugh. “He thinks he has to guard everything. He’s been the man of the house for too long.”
“He doesn't have to be anymore,” Dominic said, stepping closer. He gently lifted his free hand and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was warm, reverent, asking for permission with every millimeter. “Natalie, I know I broke what we had. I know I tore our lives apart because I was too blind, too arrogant, and too paranoid to see the truth. I don't expect you to forgive me tonight. I don't expect you to forgive me next year.”
Natalie looked up into the gray eyes that had once held all her dreams, and then all her nightmares. But tonight, she saw only truth.
“What do you want, Dominic?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“A chance to earn it,” he answered, his voice thick with raw emotion. “Not as the billionaire who can buy them a palace. But as the man who wakes up early to walk them to school. The man who cooks dinner when you're tired from work. The man who spends the rest of his life making sure you never have to be afraid of the world alone again.”
Natalie felt a single tear escape her eye, tracing a path down her cheek. Dominic caught it with the pad of his thumb, holding her face with an aching gentleness.
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“I spent five years teaching myself to hate you, Dominic,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “Because if I didn't hate you, I wouldn't have survived the heartbreak.”
“Then let the hate go,” Dominic murmured, his forehead resting gently against hers. “And let me carry the rest.”
