Isla’s POV
The clink of champagne glasses, the soft hum of orchestral strings, and the sparkle of a thousand-dollar chandelier should have calmed my nerves. Instead, I stood near the edge of the ballroom, fingers clenched tightly around my flute of bubbly, trying not to show that my world was falling apart.
This gala was supposed to be my chance to find salvation.
And he was my last hope.
Damian Voss.
He stood across the room like a shadow dressed in Armani. Dark suit. Darker eyes. A glass of scotch in his hand. Untouchable. Unbothered. The kind of man who made powerful people nervous—and powerless ones like me ache.
He’d already said no once. I had pitched my ideas. Presented my portfolio. Begged for a meeting. And he’d declined without even blinking.
Yet here I was, invited to his
