I press my face into his chest, letting the tears flow. “How can you fix this?”
“What can be fixed, I will fix,” he says, his voice low and certain. “What needs to be destroyed, I will destroy. You have my word.”
I lie in Julian’s arms, my breathing slowly steadying as his fingers trace soothing patterns on my skin. The tears have dried on my cheeks, but the raw emotional state of this new reality remains—not just from the loss of my gallery, but from this moment of complete surrender.
“Why are you doing all this for me?” I whisper against his chest.
Julian’s hand stills for a moment before resuming its gentle path along my spine. “Because I want to.”
Simple words. Dangerous words. Words that make my heart pound faster despite all my attempts to guard it.
God, I have fallen for him. Fallen so fucking hard and fast despite knowing better. Despite Julian making it clear days ago that this was just sex, just pleasure. I’m in love with a man who tried to push me away, who explicitly told me not to love him. That it wasn’t an option on the table with this thing between us.
But how can I not?
No one has ever fought for me, protected me, or stood between me and those who would hurt me.
He’s nothing like the men I’ve fantasized about in secret all these years. He’s sharper, harder, and more demanding. More real. When he looks at me with those ice-blue eyes, I feel truly seen. When he touches me, it’s not just my body that responds but something deeper, something I’ve kept buried for so long I’d forgotten it existed.
In the space of days, he’s become my world. My anchor in the storm. My king.
I press my lips against his collarbone, tasting salt and skin, wishing I could crawl inside him and stay there forever. I never want this to end—this feeling of belonging, of rightness. Evenamid the wreckage of my life, lying here with Julian feels like coming home.
30
JULIAN
Islip out of bed, careful not to disturb Elliot. After rubbing our dicks together at three in the morning until we came, followed by his emotional episode, he’s finally fallen into another exhausted sleep, his face still bearing traces of tears. For a moment, I watch him—the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the vulnerability etched across his features even in sleep. Something tightens in my chest that I refuse to examine too closely.
Time to get to work.
I shower quickly and dress in my sharpest suit—charcoal Tom Ford with a light blue tie that brings out my eyes. Armor for battle. I leave a note on the nightstand telling Elliot I’ve gone into work, then quietly close the bedroom door behind me.
Once at my office, I immediately make three calls to arrange meetings for the morning. By nine AM, I’m seated behind my desk at Frost Industries, reviewing the Chambers Gallery insurance policy that Victor forwarded to me last night.
At precisely 9:30, my assistant shows in Thomas Whitley, Senior Claims Director at Meridian Insurance. He’s a small man with perpetually worried eyes that dart around my office, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows and minimalist décor.
“Julian,” he nods, taking the seat across from me. “This is highly irregular?—”
“Thomas,” I cut him off. “Let’s not waste time. Elliot Chambers filed a claim this morning for the gallery fire. I want it processed immediately. Full payout.”
Whitley shifts uncomfortably. “There are procedures, Julian. An arson investigation is already underway, and if the owner was involved?—”
I lean forward. “Elliot Chambers was not involved. His mother, however, was. I have evidence being compiled as we speak.”
“That’s... complicated from a liability perspective.”
I slide a folder across the desk. “Inside you’ll find documentation of Margaret Chambers’ threatening messages to her son, security footage from near the gallery showing her car in the vicinity shortly before the fire, and witness statements. There’s also a reminder of Meridian’s investment portfolio, of which Frost Industries controls twenty-seven percent.”
Whitley’s face pales as he flips through the pages.
“Full payout, Thomas. No delays, no questions. Consider it a personal favor.”
Whitley thumbs through the documents, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. This is my element—boardrooms and backroom deals where power is the only language that matters.
“Thomas,” I say, keeping my voice measured. “The Frost family currently has thirty-two million dollars invested through Meridian’s corporate funds.” I tap a manicured nail against my desk. “My father has been considering a restructuring of our family portfolio. I’ve advocated for maintaining our relationship with Meridian, but that becomes difficult when a close associate faces administrative hurdles.”
His eyes widen slightly. “Julian, I appreciate your position, but there are protocols?—”