I'd only met him briefly, but Julian had explained he was another fraternity brother—one with connections that stretched from Wall Street to Washington. Surprisingly, he was also Kyue’s husband.
"I understand the board is nervous, Charles," Lucas was saying, his voice smooth but with an edge of steel beneath. "But I'm telling you, Harris is not someone you want to climb into bed with. Yes, I'm speaking both metaphorically and literally."
He caught my eye for a moment and gave a wink that seemed wildly inappropriate given the circumstances.
In the corner, partially hidden by a portable whiteboard covered in flowcharts, sat the most intimidating pair I'd ever seen. Delancy—a slender man with pale sea foam green eyes and short auburn hair—and his partner and husband Alejandro Díaz, whose biceps strained the seams of his black dress shirt, were working silently at their own station.
Julian had introduced them as "security consultants," but the way they handled their equipment suggested a background far more interesting than consulting.
"Got past the first firewall," Delancy announced, not looking up from his screen. "Alejandro, I need the proxy routed through your terminal."
Alejandro grunted in acknowledgment, his massive fingers surprisingly delicate on the keyboard.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, painfully aware of how out of place I was among these people with their resources, their connections, their shared history.
Three days ago, I'd been slinging coffee and shelving books. Now I was standing in a penthouse command center while people whose net worth could fund small countries plotted against a man who wanted to own me like property.
My fingers fidgeted with the sleeve covering my bandaged arm, the site of the tracker still tender beneath the fabric. I feltlike an imposter—Connor Matthews playing dress-up as Connor Montgomery, a pretender in a world I didn't understand and couldn't contribute to.
I retreated further toward the windows, trying to make myself invisible. The glass was cool against my forehead as I leaned against it, seeking some anchor in the midst of this surreal situation.
The soft whir of Julian's wheelchair approached from behind, barely audible over the hum of conversation and clicking keyboards. I didn't turn, but I watched his reflection join mine in the window. Even seated, there was something commanding about his presence—a quiet authority that seemed to radiate from him without effort.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice a low rumble meant only for me.
I managed a shrug, still staring out at the city lights. "Just wondering how I fit into all this," I admitted, the words escaping before I could filter them. "Everyone here has a role, a purpose. I'm just... the reason for the problem."
Julian maneuvered his chair closer, his reflection growing sharper in the glass. His hand reached for mine, our fingers intertwining in a gesture that had somehow become natural in the short time we'd known each other.
"You're not the problem, Connor," he said, his dark eyes finding mine in our shared reflection. "You're the reason we're fighting."
I turned to face him then, pulling my hand away. "That's what I mean. All of this—" I gestured to the room behind us, the people working tirelessly, the resources being poured into the effort, "—is because of me. Because I broke into your hotel room. Because my family sold me to a psychopath who now wants to destroy your company." The words tumbled out, weighted with guilt. "I should be apologizing, not—"
"No," Julian cut me off, his voice firm but not harsh. He reached for my hand again, tugging me closer until I had to bend slightly to hear him. "You're worth protecting, Connor."
The tenderness in his voice caught me off guard. My eyes widened as I searched his face for any sign that he was simply saying what he thought I needed to hear. But there was nothing but sincerity in those dark eyes, nothing but conviction in the set of his jaw.
My breath caught in my throat, a strange warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. This man—this powerful, wealthy, commanding man—looked at me like I was something precious, something valuable beyond the dollars my family had tried to sell me for.
"I—" I started, but found I had no words to respond to such a simple, devastating statement.
Julian's lips curved into that almost-smile I was coming to cherish. He squeezed my hand once more before releasing it, his attention drawn by Jake calling his name from across the room.
"Duty calls," he said, his eyes lingering on mine for a moment longer before he wheeled himself back toward the center of operations.
I remained by the window, watching him take command of the room with effortless authority, directing resources and making decisions with the confidence of someone who had spent a lifetime leading.
The ache in my chest intensified as I realized that Julian Montgomery—a man who could have anyone, who needed nothing from me—had chosen to fight for me.
Not because I was valuable as property, as Harris believed.
Not because I was useful, as my family had calculated.
But because, to Julian, I was simply worth it.
I wandered through the penthouse, feeling like a ghost haunting spaces where I didn't belong. Julian was deep inconversation with Jake at the main workstation, his face serious as they discussed strategy.
I'd tried to follow their conversation for the first hour, but the business jargon and technical terms quickly left me behind. Now I just drifted between rooms, a spectator in what was supposedly my own home.
