Julian's hand found mine in the darkness, his fingers warm and strong as they intertwined with my own. He squeezed once—a silent promise of protection that somehow steadied me despite the danger closing in around us.
I squeezed back, trying to convey without words that I wasn't going anywhere, that whatever happened next, we would face it together.
Whether it had been days or a lifetime, Julian Montgomery was no longer just the man who had saved me from Harris—he was the man I would fight beside, the man I would protect as fiercely as he protected me.
The service elevator fell silent. They were here.
Julian maneuvered his wheelchair with practiced precision in the dim red light, guiding us away from the security room toward what I knew was his study. My eyes had adjusted enough to follow his lead without stumbling, though I had to fight the urge to rush ahead, to pull him faster. I knew better. Julian moved with purpose, with a plan, not blind panic.
I trusted that.
We made it to the study just as the first sounds reached us—the soft scrape of the service entrance door opening, followed by the barely audible footfalls of someone trained to move silently.
Julian positioned his wheelchair in a corner of the study where two bookcases met, then pulled me down beside him. His body was tense but his movements remained precise, controlled. He reached beneath his wheelchair and withdrew something that glinted dully in the red emergency light—a handgun I hadn't known he kept there.
The sight should have terrified me further, but instead, I felt a strange calm settle over me. Julian was prepared. Julian had planned for this.
"When I squeeze your hand," he breathed against my ear, so quietly I barely caught the words, "run for the panic room behind the false wall in our bedroom. Third book from the left on the bottom shelf activates it."
I nodded before realizing he might not be able to see the gesture in the dim light. I leaned closer, my lips nearly touching his ear as I whispered back, "Not without you."
His fingers tightened around mine, whether in frustration or appreciation I couldn't tell. There was no time to argue—the footsteps were drawing closer, moving with deliberate slowness through the main living area of the penthouse.
We sat frozen in the darkness, our controlled breathing and the faint click of what might have been weapons being readied the only sounds breaking the tense silence.
Julian's hand found mine again, his grip firm and reassuring despite the danger advancing toward us from the hallway.
I thought of everything that had brought us to this moment—the drugged drink at my family dinner, my desperate escape, stumbling into Julian's hotel room. A series of terrible events that had somehow led to the one person who made me feel truly safe, truly valued.
The footsteps paused just outside the study door. Julian's hand squeezed mine once—a silent promise of protection as the door began to slowly swing open.
Chapter Twelve
~ Julian ~
I reached behind my wheelchair and pulled Connor down beside me as the study door swung open. My hand gripped the gun with practiced familiarity, the weight of it a cold comfort against the chaos unfolding in my home.
The red emergency lighting cast bloody shadows across the room, transforming my sanctuary into something alien and dangerous.
The silhouette of a man appeared in the doorway, a darker shape against the crimson glow. I held my breath, my finger hovering near the trigger, every muscle tensed for what might come next.
Connor's body was warm against mine, his breathing shallow but controlled. I felt a surge of pride mingled with my fear—just days ago, he'd been a stranger in my hotel room, and now he was facing armed intruders with remarkable composure.
The man swept a tactical flashlight across the study, the beam slicing through the darkness, stopping just inches from where we were concealed in the corner.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but years of boardroom battles had taught me to keep my exterior calm even when my insides were chaos. I waited, calculating trajectories, angles, probabilities—the mathematics of survival.
The beam moved on. The man retreated, muttering something into what I assumed was a communication device. Once his footsteps faded, I turned to Connor, my lips nearly touching his ear.
"Stay behind me," I whispered, so softly it was barely audible over our synchronized breathing. "We need to move. Now."
I maneuvered my wheelchair with practiced silence, a skill honed through years of midnight work sessions when sleepeluded me. The rubber wheels made no sound on the plush carpet as I guided us toward the door, pausing to listen for movement in the hallway beyond.
Connor's hand rested lightly on my shoulder, a point of warmth in the chilled air of the penthouse. I reached up, my fingers briefly covering his—a gesture that conveyed more than words could have in that moment.
Then I refocused, all business, all strategy.
The hallway stretched before us, bathed in that same eerie red glow. I could hear muffled sounds from different parts of the penthouse—drawers opening, furniture being moved, methodical searching. Harris's men weren't just looking for us; they were hunting for something specific.
