“Yes. But?—”
“You little liar.”
She flinched.
“Are you even a writer?” he demanded. And then his expression turned ice cold. “You did not come here to write about me, did you? You came to trap me into marriage!”
The room swayed around her.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. His expression wasall sharp angles and betrayal—the man who had kissed her in the most intimate way possible now looked at her as if she were a stranger.
Worse than that,an enemy.
“You’re wrong, Julian. I swear to you?—”
“You lied to me.”
His height—his sheer presence—filled the room. A moment ago, that strength had made her feel safe. Now, it was just shy of terrifying.
“Please, let me?—”
His hand rose abruptly.
She ducked.
The crash came a heartbeat later—his fist slamming into the wall beside her, plaster splitting under the force. The sound cracked through the room. Dust rained down. Wood splintered.
“All this time.”
He stood there, chest rising and falling rapidly, knuckles split and bleeding.
“I didn’t—” She reached toward him on instinct, fingers lifting toward his face.
The look in his eye stopped her cold.
“I came here to write the story,” she said, her voice breaking. “I swear it.”
He gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “You lie.”
“I’m not! Iama writer!” she insisted. “And I told you the truth about my father’s demand?—”
“Your fatheris dead.”
“Yes, I know, but?—”
“You let me think…”
“Ihadto,” she said.
The words fell between them.
His mouth tightened.What had she done?
From the doorway, Wallace’s voice cut in, cautious. “What… shall I tell him, Your Grace?”
Rosamund’s head snapped toward the sound.
Julian’s hand closed around her upper arm—not crushing, but firm enough to steal her breath—pulling her a half-step toward him.