Chapter 320
The first blush of dawn snuck through the massive glass walls of Isabella’s swanky penthouse tower, stretching lazy shadows across the gleaming marble lobby like fingers reaching for the last bit of night. Henry Jackson had been parked there all damn night, crumpled in one of those unforgiving leather armchairs that felt more like a medieval torture device than furniture. His lanky frame was twisted into a pretzel, and his usually chiseled face—sharp jawline, the works—looked like it’d been through a wringer, etched with lines of pure exhaustion. Those warm brown eyes of his, normally sparkling with that ambitious fire, were now red-rimmed disasters, circled by dark bags that screamed “I haven’t slept since the Stone Age.” His dark hair? A total mess, like he’d been auditioning for a bad hair day commercial, thanks to endless frustrated rakes of his fingers. And yeah, he was still rocking yesterday’s shirt, all rumpled and collar-crooked, a walking billboard for “I’ve been waiting forever p>
The doorman had shot him these pitying glances all night but kept his trap shut—Henry was a regular fixture around here, after all, like that one persistent houseplant that refuses to die.
Then, bam—his phone buzzed like it had finally woken up from a coma. Isabella’s message lit up the screen: the address to her folks’ cozy countryside pad. Henry’s heart went into overdrive, pounding like a drummer at a rock concert, a mix of sweet relief and that “let’s do this” grit. No time for chit-chat; he shot up like a jack-in-the-box, snagged his jacket off the armrest, and bolted for the doors. His fancy shoes slapped against the tiles in a frantic rhythm, echoing through the empty lobby.
Bursting out into the crisp morning air felt like a cold shower he didn’t ask for, but who cared? His brain was a total storm, flashing back to every stolen moment with Isabella—the belly laughs that left them gasping, those lingering looks that snuck under his skin and set up camp in his heart without him even noticing. Man, he was in deeper than a submarine.
“Mr. Jackson!” boomed Marcus, one of his beefy bodyguards, stepping out from the shadow of the sleek black SUV purring at the curb. Theo, the silent type behind the wheel, was already eyeballing the street like a hawk on patrol. “Boss, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck—and then backed over for good measure. Let us handle the driving, yeah p>
Henry froze mid-yank on the passenger door, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. Part of him wanted to jump in and gun it himself, pedal to the metal, closing the gap to Isabella faster than you could say “bad idea.” But his hands were jittery traitors, and his eyes? Blurry from the all-nighter nightmare fest where his imagination had cooked up every worst-case scenario in the book. “Alright, fine,” he grumbled, sliding into the back seat like a defeated king. “Just get me there. Yesterday p>
Marcus gave a quick nod, hopping into shotgun while Theo tapped the address into the GPS. The screen glowed with the verdict: two hours and forty minutes, snaking through London’s morning snarl before breaking free into the rolling English countryside. The engine growled to life, and they tore off the curb, the city skyline fading in the mirror like a bad dream finally ending. Henry leaned back, staring out the window, half-expecting the universe to throw one more curveball—just for laughs. But hey, at least he wasn’t driving; with his luck, he’d probably end up in Scotland by mistake.
In the back seat, Henry slumped against the cool window, watching the city buildings zip by in a hazy blur—like his life flashing before his eyes, but way less dramatic and mostly just traffic. His brain was on overdrive, scripting out the perfect monologue to win Isabella back. How the hell do I make her believe me? he pondered, fingers tapping a frantic beat on his knee, like he was drumming up courage from thin air. She’s convinced I’m still mooning over Eliana, that ghost from my past who never even became a real Chapter. And yeah, two days ago, I might’ve agreed—thought no one could eclipse that old “what if” flame. But then Isabella stormed off, declaring she couldn’t play the “just friends” game anymore, and bam—it slammed into me harder than a runaway bus. Losing her? Not an option. This thing with her? It’s not some flicker; it’s a wildfire, burning hotter and deeper than anything I’ve known. Damn it, I’m head-over-heels in love with her, and it’s eating me alive in the best possible way.
He squeezed his eyes shut, running lines like a bad actor prepping for a rom-com audition. “Isabella, hear me out,” he murmured under his breath, testing the waters. “Eliana? She’s ancient history—a plot twist that fizzled out before it started. But you… you’re the real deal, my present tense, my happily ever after waiting to happen. I was blind until you walked away, but now? I can’t fake it anymore. Come back. Date me for real. Let me prove I’m all in—flowers, bad jokes, the whole nine yards.” He cringed a little at how cheesy it sounded out loud, half-expecting the universe to cue the violins or, worse, laugh track.
Up front, Marcus and Theo swapped these knowing side-eyes, like they were in on some secret bromance telepathy, but they kept mum—pros at the whole “boss is having a moment” vibe. The drive dragged on eternally, the concrete jungle finally surrendering to those postcard-perfect rolling hills, tidy hedgerows that looked like they’d been manicured by elves, and random bursts of forest that whispered “escape here.” Henry’s phone kept buzzing like an annoying mosquito—work alerts piling up, because hey, aspiring doctor life doesn’t pause for heartbreak. Hospital shifts loomed, family pressures nagged (the Jacksons expected nothing short of medical royalty), but he swiped them all away. Priorities, right? Nothing trumped Isabella—the spitfire who’d crashed into his world at that dingy bar, all raw edges and unfiltered fury after her world imploded.
She was a self-made powerhouse, built her empire from scratch only to watch it teeter when that slimy ex-fiancé Logan turned out to be a gold-digging nightmare, scheming to off her for the inheritance. Plotting murder? Talk about upgrading from cheater to villain status. Henry had jumped in, playing detective to help her unmask the creep, and in the chaos, she’d somehow pieced together the shattered bits of his own soul he hadn’t even noticed were missing. Now? She was the missing piece he couldn’t imagine life without. If this drive didn’t end soon, he might just start practicing his speech on the guards—because nothing says “romantic epiphany” like confessing to your bodyguards.
Two hours and fifty minutes later—because, of course, London’s traffic decided to throw a full-on tantrum on the outskirts, turning what should’ve been a scenic jaunt into a slow-motion crawl—the SUV finally crunched onto a gravel driveway that led to this picture-perfect stone cottage. It was like something ripped straight from a fairy tale: ivy snaking up the walls like it owned the place, a thatched roof sagging just enough to look adorably rustic, and chimneys lazily puffing out wisps of smoke that whispered “cozy vibes only.” Beyond the house, wildflower meadows rolled out like a vibrant carpet, dotted with fluffy sheep that probably spent their days judging passersby, and the air? Thick with that earthy, lavender-scented hug that makes you forget city smog even exists. If stress had a natural antidote, this place was it.
As the car rolled to a stop, the front door burst open like it couldn’t wait any longer, and out stepped three figures: Isabella in the middle, her dark hair dancing in the breeze like it had a mind of its own, bookended by her folks, Edward and Winnie, who looked equal parts welcoming and “who’s this guy crashing our countryside retreat p>
Isabella’s heart was doing somersaults as she edged out onto the porch, her slim figure wrapped in a breezy sundress that caught the wind like a sail, fluttering around her like it was in on the drama. Her warm olive skin soaked up the sun’s glow, but those big, expressive eyes—usually firing on all cylinders with that fierce determination of hers—were clouded over with a mix of doubt and “what now?” She clocked Henry unfolding from the SUV, all tall and handsome, his sharp features melting into this raw, relieved expression that hit her right in the feels. Without overthinking it (because when did that ever help?), she started toward him, closing the gap across the lawn still slick with morning dew, her bare feet probably regretting the choice but her heart not giving a damn.
Henry’s steps picked up speed, those warm brown eyes of his zeroing in on hers like laser beams, ignoring everything else—the bodyguards wisely hanging back by the car, probably betting on whether this reunion would end in tears or triumph. They met in the middle like magnets snapping together, and he didn’t waste a beat: he yanked her into a bear hug that could crush worries, his arms locking around her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling that wildflower-and-home scent that short-circuited his brain and nearly turned him into a puddle.
“Isabella,” he mumbled, voice cracking like old vinyl, all muffled against her shoulder. “I’m so damn sorry. God, for hurting you like that, for making you think you were some runner-up prize. I never meant to—hell, I didn’t even realize how blind I was being p>
“Henry,” she whispered back, her hands hesitantly sliding up his back, feeling the knots of tension there like a roadmap of his sleepless night. She eased back just enough to look up at him, her eyes digging into his for the truth. “Whoa, easy there. Breathe, okay? Just… take a breath. Slow it down. You’re here now—that’s what counts p>
He nodded, letting out a shaky exhale that rattled his whole frame, but he couldn’t quite let go, his hands staying put on her arms like anchors. “I turned your lobby into my personal campsite all night. Called every contact in my phonebook—twice. I was losing my mind, convinced something awful had happened. Then your message popped up… I had to haul ass here. No way was I letting another second slip by without fixing this mess.” He flashed a weak, self-deprecating grin, adding under his breath, “Though, pro tip: next time, maybe include ’I’m fine, just dramatically fleeing to the countryside’ in the text? Would’ve saved me from imagining every disaster movie plot p>
Behind them, Winnie and Edward lingered on the porch like a pair of wise old owls, taking in the scene with that parental mix of curiosity and quiet judgment. Winnie, a delightfully plump woman with eyes that crinkled like they held a lifetime of warm secrets, still sporting her flour-dusted apron from whatever baking magic she’d been up to, gave her husband a gentle elbow nudge. “Would you look at that, Edward? Tall drink of water, handsome as they come, and sharp-eyed too. I like him already—reminds me of a certain young rogue I married way back when.” She winked, her voice laced with that proud mama-bear vibe.
To be continued p>