Oh.
The space is stunning. Minimalist luxury taken to an art form. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate one entire wall, offering a panoramic view of Oakridge Hollow spread out below—the quaint downtown, the surrounding forests, the mountains rising in the distance. Late afternoon light pours through the glass, turning everything golden.
The furniture is sleek and modern—clean lines, neutral colors, everything precisely arranged. A massive sectional sofa in charcoal gray. A glass coffee table with nothing on it but a single orchid in a white pot. Built-in shelves that hold books organized by color and height, creating a perfect gradient. The kitchen is all white marble and stainless steel, with appliances that probably cost more than my monthly rent at my old apartment.
It's beautiful. It's also cold. Like a museum exhibit or a magazine spread—designed to be looked at, not lived in. There are no personal touches, no photographs, no evidence that an actual human being spends time here. No shoes kicked off by the door, no coffee mug left on the counter, no throw blanket draped carelessly over a chair.
Organized closets hiding emotional walls. That's what Ruby said about him. Looking at this place, I'm starting tounderstand exactly what she meant. This isn't a home. It's a fortress.
And then I notice the kitchen island.
Someone has set up a Valentine's spread that looks like it belongs in a food magazine. A heart-shaped charcuterie board—actual heart-shaped, not even trying to be subtle—loaded with artisan cheeses in varying shades of cream and gold, cured meats arranged in perfect rosettes, fresh fruits still glistening with dewdrops, and crackers fanned out like playing cards. Several bottles of wine stand at attention—expensive labels, I recognize some of them from the rare wine section at upscale restaurants, both reds and whites—alongside an assortment of gourmet chocolates in a crystal dish that catches the fading light. Candles in elegant silver holders, unlit but waiting. Rose petals scattered artfully across the white marble surface, a pop of red against all that pristine paleness.
My jaw actually drops.
This is... this is romantic. Genuinely, undeniably, achingly romantic. From the man who speaks in monosyllables and glares at everyone like they've personally offended him.
"Julian." I turn to look at him, genuinely shocked. "You did all this?"
His expression shutters immediately, walls slamming up so fast I can almost hear them. "No. I hired someone."
"Really?" I take a step closer to the spread, examining the careful arrangement. The way the colors complement each other—the deep burgundy of the wine echoing the rose petals, the gold of the cheese matching the chocolate wrappers. The attention to detail in every placement. "You spent money on little old me?"
His flush deepens—still subtle, but definitely there, creeping up from his collar. "No!"
"Julian." I press a hand to my chest in mock surprise. "You shouldn't have. All this effort, just for a fake Omega? I'm touched. Truly. Deeply."
He grumbles something unintelligible, his ears now distinctly pink. "I'm going to the washroom," he announces abruptly, and practically flees the room.
Ha. Got him.
The grumpy investor who can intimidate Uber drivers with a single eyebrow raise—completely undone by a little teasing about his secret romantic gesture. This is the most emotion I've seen from Julian since I met him, and I'm absolutely going to remember it forever.
I take the opportunity to explore the space while he's gone. The penthouse is larger than it first appeared—a wine cellar visible through a glass door, a hallway that presumably leads to bedrooms, a home office with more monitors than seems necessary for one person. Everything is immaculate. Everything is controlled.
I drift toward the windows, drawn by the view. Oakridge Hollow looks almost magical from up here—the snow-covered streets, the twinkling lights just beginning to come on as evening approaches, the mountains turning purple in the fading light. It's peaceful. Beautiful.
And then I see them.
Down on the street below, a figure stands on the sidewalk, looking up at the penthouse. I can't make out details from this height—just a dark coat, a shape that might be human, a face tilted upward. They're not moving. Just... watching.
What the?—
I press closer to the glass, trying to make out features. Male? Female? Young? Old? The distance is too great, even though this building isn't that tall compared to city skyscrapers. All I cansee is the shape of them, the stillness, the unsettling way they're staring directly at this window.
A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the winter weather.
I blink, and when I look again, the figure is gone. Vanished. Like they were never there at all.
Did I imagine that? Was someone actually there? Or am I being paranoid after all those threatening messages?
Come home, or we'll bring you.
You can't hide forever.
My family's words echo in my mind, but I push them away. I refuse to let their threats poison this moment. Whoever that was—if they were even real—they're gone now. And I'm here, in Julian's beautiful penthouse, about to share a Valentine's meal with an Alpha who went to far more effort than he'd ever admit.
"Everything alright?"
