I've tried Google Maps. Apple Maps. Even that weird third-party app that's supposed to find obscure locations that the mainstream services miss. Nothing. It's like Julian's penthouse exists in some parallel dimension that technology can't access.The street name appears to be correct, but the building number just... vanishes into the digital void.
Which, honestly, tracks. The man himself seems to exist in his own parallel dimension most of the time. He's a mystery wrapped in designer clothes and topped with a permanent scowl.
I ordered an Uber anyway, hoping the driver might know the area better than my phone. The car pulls up—a dented sedan that's seen better decades, paint peeling and one headlight flickering ominously—and the driver rolls down his window with an expression that suggests he's already regretting accepting this fare.
"Where the hell are you going?" he demands before I can even open my mouth. His scent hits me through the open window—stale cigarettes and cheap cologne and the sour undertone of an Alpha who's been driving too long without a break. There's anger simmering beneath his surface, the kind that has nothing to do with me but will absolutely be directed at me anyway. "Or did you just waste my time ordering a ride with no destination?"
I blink, momentarily stunned by his hostility. "I'm trying to find?—"
I don't get to finish my sentence.
A splash of water—no, not a splash, adeluge—comes flying from somewhere above us and hits the driver square in the face through his open window. He sputters, gasps, claws at his eyes like he's been attacked by an invisible waterfall. His shirt is soaked. His seat is soaked. Half the interior of his car is now dripping.
I look up.
Julian is leaning out of a window three stories above us, an empty pitcher dangling from his elegant fingers. He's dressed impeccably—charcoal sweater, perfectly styled hair, expressionof supreme irritation—like he didn't just assault a man with what appears to be an entire gallon of water.
"First," Julian calls down, his voice carrying that crisp, controlled tone that makes boardrooms fall silent, "you should learn how to speak to a lady instead of demanding bullshit when she clearly hadn't finished ordering your services."
The driver sputters, wiping water from his eyes. "What the fuck, man? I'm going to?—"
Julian arches a single, devastating eyebrow.
Just that. Nothing else. No threats, no posturing, no flexing of Alpha dominance. Just one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in a way that somehow conveys entire novels worth of "try me and see what happens."
The driver grits his teeth so hard I can hear them grinding. For a moment, I think he's actually going to get out of the car and escalate this into something physical. But then his survival instincts apparently kick in, because he mutters "never fucking mind" under his breath, slams his car into drive, and peels away from the curb fast enough to leave tire marks.
Well. That was... something.
I look back up at Julian, who's watching the retreating Uber with the satisfied expression of a cat who's just successfully intimidated a dog ten times its size.
"What kind of juju did you just use on him?" I call up, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.
Julian shrugs slightly—the most minimal motion possible while still technically qualifying as a shrug. "They're all the same. Loud and angry until you intimidate them with cleanliness and silence. They meet their match and run with their tails between their legs." He pauses, studying the empty street where the Uber disappeared. "He's no different from most Alphas who come through here hoping to make some quick change before moving to the next town."
Cleanliness and silence. That's... actually a terrifyingly accurate description of Julian's particular brand of intimidation. He doesn't need to raise his voice or puff up his chest. He just has to exist at people until they realize they're outmatched.
"Follow me," Julian says, disappearing from the window. A moment later, I hear a door open somewhere, and then he's emerging from the building's entrance, keys in hand. He points toward a sleek hybrid Mercedes parked at the curb—silver, immaculate, probably worth more than everything I own combined. "This way."
I blink at him. "Did you... come to pick me up?"
The faintest flush of color touches his cheekbones—so subtle I almost miss it. "Fuck no." He says it quickly, dismissively. "I was simply in the area and realized you were standing there looking foolish."
In the area. Of his own building. Where he lives. Standing at his own window with a pitcher of water conveniently ready to throw at rude drivers.
Sure, Julian. Very convincing.
I giggle—actually giggle—at his transparent denial. "Thank you. For the rescue and the ride."
He huffs, that sound I'm beginning to recognize as Julian's version of emotional expression. "I didn't stop for you," he emphasizes, unlocking the Mercedes with a click. "Get in before someone else tries to yell at you."
The interior of his car smells like expensive leather and something subtly masculine—sandalwood maybe, or cedar, mixed with the crisp notes of whatever cologne Julian wears. It's clean to the point of sterility, not a single speck of dust or stray receipt anywhere. The dashboard gleams. The floor mats look like they've never been stepped on.
OCD tendencies, I remember from something Tank mentioned once. Julian likes control. Julian likes order. Julian likes everything in its precisely designated place.
The drive is short—just around the corner and into an underground parking garage. The building is a miniature condo complex, newer construction, all clean lines and modern architecture. Not as towering as the skyscrapers in the city, but clearly the nicest residential building in Oakridge Hollow.
Julian leads me to an elevator that requires a key card, then up to the top floor. The doors open directly into his penthouse, and I have to actively stop myself from gasping.
