Fated Marriage Spoiled by My Ice Billionaire novel Chapter 65

The pearl necklace and earrings rested inside, nestled in a velvet box. Right beside it was another, smaller case.

Curiosity got the better of her. She opened it. Inside was a tulip-shaped brooch, exquisitely crafted.

It was stunning, catching the light and scattering it into tiny rainbows. She looked closer; it was a rare, niche design, the kind of handcrafted piece only available through a private commission.

"Do you like it?" His voice came from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame.

She gasped softly. When had he gotten there?

And which gift was he asking about? The one in the drawer, or this one?

"I... I do." Isabelle's ears burned. She clenched her hands briefly before hurriedly standing up.

"Good." A faint, knowing smile touched his lips.

"Thank you."

She pushed the drawer closed, her eyes landing on the garment bag she'd brought home last night. Seizing the chance to change the subject, she moved toward it.

"I-um, I got you something too." She walked to the side of the bed, unzipped the bag, and first pulled out her own blazer.

Then, carefully, she withdrew the two dress shirts and the tailored suit jacket she had made for him.

She held them up, checking the lines and the imagined fit against his frame.

Damian padded over in his slippers, the picture of relaxed ease.

So, this was what she meant last night by "this is for him". That "him" was him.

A profound sense of victory washed over him, spreading a genuine, wide smile across his face.

She was trying. Trying to care for him.

That was enough. It was more than he had dared to hope for so soon.

Watching Damian approach with that lopsided, rogueish grin—the kind of handsome that was deliberately disarming—threw her completely off balance.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, her palms growing damp.

"You... you should try it on..." She held the clothes out, glanced at him now standing so close, and felt her face flush anew.

In a flustered rush, she shoved the garments into his arms and ducked past him, out of the room.

"I'll wait for you downstairs!" she called back, her voice trailing behind her like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"Heh..." A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. His long, deft fingers rubbed the fine fabric absently. He brought the white shirt to his face and inhaled deeply, as if he could capture the faint, lingering scent of her skin on the material.

His wardrobe was almost exclusively black. He didn't know why this woman kept envisioning him in white.

But, he found he didn't mind it at all.

She hadn't been waiting on the living room sofa for more than ten minutes when Damian descended the stairs, a necktie in his hand.

He was wearing the white shirt she had made, paired with the black suit jacket. The trousers were his own; Isabelle hadn't had time to complete a full set.

Truthfully, it was because she hadn't yet gotten the chance—or worked up the nerve—to take his measurements below the waist. Their relationship, so far, felt like it existed only from the waist up. Anything further felt like it would require... more time.

"You made these yourself?" Damian asked, his lips curving as he walked toward where she sat perched on the sofa edge.

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