I turn to find Julian watching me from the hallway entrance. His expression is guarded, but there's a flicker of concern beneath the surface—quickly masked, but I caught it.
"Fine," I say, forcing a smile. "Just admiring the view. It's incredible."
He studies me for a moment longer, like he doesn't quite believe me, but doesn't push. Instead, he gestures toward the kitchen island. "Come. Eat. The food won't stay at optimal temperature indefinitely."
Optimal temperature. Such a Julian way to phrase it.
I settle onto one of the sleek barstools, the leather cold against my jeans. Julian moves around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, uncorking a bottle of wine and pouring two glasses without asking my preference. Red, deep and rich, probably costing more than my entire wardrobe.
"Thank you," I say, accepting the glass. "For all this. It's... really beautiful."
He makes a noncommittal sound, neither accepting nor deflecting the compliment.
An idea strikes me. "Would you want some coffee? To go with dessert later?"
Julian pauses, considering. His expression shifts through several micro-emotions—surprise, consideration, something that might be longing. "Fine," he says finally. "Whatever you made that morning you were at Tank's house."
I grin, feeling that familiar spark of confidence that comes when I'm in my element. "So youdidlike it."
"No," he says immediately, too quickly.
My grin spreads wider. "Julian. You're asking me to make it again. That means you liked it."
"It was... adequate." He refuses to meet my eyes, suddenly very interested in arranging cheese on a small plate. "I simply want to compare it to my memory. For quality control purposes."
Quality control purposes. This man is going to be the death of me.
I slide off the barstool and move to examine his coffee setup. It's impressive, naturally—a high-end espresso machine, a burr grinder, beans that look freshly roasted. Everything I need to recreate the lavender honey oat milk latte I made him to soothe his irritation.
I lose myself in the process. This is where I belong—measuring beans with precision, grinding them to the perfect consistency, listening to the machine hum and hiss as it works its magic. The familiar motions settle something anxious in my chest. The scent of fresh espresso fills the pristine kitchen, warm and grounding, a comforting contrast to all this cold perfection.
Coffee has always been my safe space. The one thing I'm genuinely, undeniably good at. The one area where my confidence doesn't waver, where I don't second-guess myself into paralysis.
"I don't mean to be so..." Julian's voice interrupts my focus. When I glance over, he's staring at his wine glass, jaw tight, fingers tracing the stem in that repetitive motion I've noticed before. "Irrational."
I pause my work, giving him my full attention. This feels important—Julian voluntarily offering information about himself, without deflection or sarcasm. Without being pushed or prodded.
"What do you mean?"
He's quiet for a long moment. The espresso machine hisses softly behind me. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the last of the daylight fades into twilight, painting the mountains in shades of purple and indigo.
"I was betrothed once," he says finally, the words clipped and careful, like each one costs him something to speak. "An arranged match. My family's doing—they wanted to secure certain business connections, and I was the currency they chose to spend. The dutiful son, sold off to cement a merger."
Currency. Like me. Like what my family tried to do with me. We have more in common than I realized.
"It ended in betrayal." His grip on the wine glass tightens, knuckles going white. "She was feeding information to a competitor the entire time. Stock positions, investment strategies, things I'd shared in confidence because I thought—" He stops, jaw working like he's physically preventing the next words from escaping. "It doesn't matter what I thought. The point is, I was used. Manipulated. And I didn't see it coming until the damage was already done. Until my reputation was nearly destroyed."
I abandon the espresso machine entirely, moving back to the island to face him properly. His scent has shifted—the usual crisp cologne overlaid with something sharper now. Anxiety. Old pain. The bitter edge of memories that still haven't healed.
"Julian..."
"I built everything I have from nothing," he continues, not looking at me. "My family's fortune was supposed to be my heritage. My foundation. Instead, they used it as leverage to control me, and when I refused to be controlled, they cut me off entirely. Everything I've accomplished—the investments, the modeling contracts, all of it—I did alone. Without their help. Without anyone's help."
That explains so much. The obsessive control. The pristine penthouse with no personal touches. The walls so high you can barely see over them. He built himself a fortress because the alternative was being vulnerable again. Being hurt again.
"It made things isolating," he admits, his voice quieter now. "Building success while watching others rely on the heritage their families actually blessed them with. Knowing I should have had that support but was denied it because I refused to be their puppet."
The candles on the island remain unlit, but the fading light through the windows casts everything in soft shadows. Intimate despite the sterile surroundings.
