The voice stopped me cold. Elizabeth Harrington had emerged from the boardroom, her stiletto heels clicking sharply against the polished floor as she approached. I noticed Michael pause, hovering just within earshot but giving us the illusion of privacy.
"Ms. Harrington," I acknowledged, wishing I had Julian's talent for making simple greetings sound like power plays.
She stepped closer, her expensive perfume enveloping me like a cloud. It was disorienting—too sweet and somehow predatory, like flowers that attract insects only to trap them.
"You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into," she hissed, her perfectly made-up face inches from mine. The polite veneer from the boardroom had vanished, replaced with something harder, sharper. "Julian Montgomery destroys everything he touches. I should know."
The words were meant to wound, but what struck me most was the raw hurt beneath them. This wasn't just cattiness or jealousy—there was genuine pain in her perfect blue eyes.
Before I could respond, a presence loomed beside us. Michael had appeared silently, like a protective shadow materializing exactly when needed.
"Ms. Harrington," he said, his tone coolly professional but with an undercurrent of dismissal that couldn't be missed. "Your car is waiting."
Elizabeth's perfectly composed face flushed with anger, the color high on her cheekbones the only crack in her flawless façade.
For a moment, I thought she might argue, might try to finish whatever she'd started with me. Instead, she straightened, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her immaculate skirt.
"Of course. Thank you, Michael." Her voice had returned to its practiced pleasantness, but her eyes, when they flicked back to me, were cold. "Do think about what I said, Connor, before it's too late."
With that parting shot, she retreated, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor like angry punctuation marks. I watched her go, wondering what history lay between her and Julian, what wounds still festered beneath their professional interactions.
Michael said nothing, but inclined his head slightly toward the elevator bay, a silent suggestion that we continue. I followed, grateful for his intervention, but still unsettled by Elizabeth's warning.
Julian joined us moments later, his business with Davidson apparently concluded. If he noticed my distraction as we waited for the elevator, he didn't comment on it. The doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a private elevator car lined with polished wood and brass fixtures.
Once inside, with the doors closed and Michael stationed outside to ensure our privacy, I finally asked the question that had been burning in my mind since Elizabeth's confrontation.
"Who is she to you?" The words came out more abruptly than I'd intended, hanging in the confined space between us.
Julian's expression darkened as the elevator began its descent, the numbers flashing on the digital display counting down the floors. In this small, enclosed space, his vulnerability seemed more apparent, the careful control he maintained in the boardroom slipping just slightly.
"Someone I thought I knew," he admitted after a long moment, his hand finding mine, fingers intertwining naturally. "Someone who left the moment I couldn't walk."
The raw pain in his voice made my chest ache. I'd suspected something like this—had gathered as much from the photos I'd seen and the comments that had been made—but hearing him confirm it, hearing the hurt still fresh after three years, hit me harder than I expected.
"She was with me before the accident," Julian continued, his eyes fixed on our joined hands. "Three years together. Not married, but... significant. She visited twice in the hospital, then disappeared. When I finally reached her, she said she 'wasn't equipped to handle my new reality.'"
The clinical brutality of the phrase made my stomach turn. I squeezed his hand tighter, wishing I could somehow erase the memory of that rejection.
"Her new reality is that she's a heartless bitch," I said before I could stop myself.
To my surprise, Julian laughed—a short, genuine sound that transformed his face for a brief moment. "That's one way to put it," he agreed, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of my hand. "She joined the board last year. Daddy's influence."
I wanted to ask more—wanted to understand how he could bear to work with someone who had abandoned him at his lowest point—but the elevator slowed, the digital display flashing "P" as we arrived at the private parking garage.
The doors slid open, revealing Julian's customized vehicle waiting exactly where we'd left it, sleek and black against the concrete. Michael was already there, having somehow beaten us down, standing beside the driver's door with his usual expressionless vigilance.
As we moved from the elevator to the car, Julian's hand remained in mine, a warm connection that felt increasingly natural.
The emotional weight of his confession lingered between us during the silent drive home, but it wasn't uncomfortable—just a shared understanding, another layer uncovered in the complex man I was beginning to know.
I watched the city pass by outside the window, processing everything that had happened. In the space of one morning, I'd been introduced as Julian Montgomery's husband to some of the most powerful people in the business world, witnessed a corporate battle firsthand, and learned about one of the deepest wounds in Julian's past.
And somehow, improbably, I felt like I belonged exactly where I was.
The penthouse felt different when we returned—not the sanctuary it had started to become in my mind, but a fortress preparing for siege.
Julian wheeled himself directly to his security center the moment we stepped off the private elevator, his earlier triumph in the boardroom replaced by grim determination.
