A message from Julian pinged through:JULIAN:Why are you at that house? Tell me you’re okay.
I exhaled. Yes, I was okay. For the first time in years, I was okay—and not because someone needed me, but because I was finally starting to choose where I belonged. And it wasn’t with the Ashworths.
I texted him back. “I’m fine. I’m coming home.”
Chapter 34
Elara
It was only noon, and my eyes were already gritty from staring at a screen full of numbers that refused to solve my problems. I had spent the morning trying to figure out how to pitch myself to a new distributor. I needed someone who could warehouse, package, and ship inventory reliably—someone who could scale with the company and take logistics off the plate. All Alastair should have to do was focus on building the brand instead of drowning in backend operations he had no idea how to manage.
With what I was planning—boxes of high-end lingerie and curated toys, perhaps even a monthly subscription service—I needed a distributor who could handle discreet packaging, recurring orders, and unpredictable spikes in demand. It was difficult to find partners willing to handle intimate products, but if I could secure this myself, I wouldn’t have to lean on Julian or his mother’s network.
Freedom would only mean something if I earned it with my own hands. I didn’t know if it was my years with the Ashworths or my naturally independent nature, but I didn’t like the thought of my future becoming another transaction on someone else’s ledger—even if that someone loved me.
A prickling sensation crawled up the back of my neck, pulling me from my thoughts. I turned my chair—and couldn’t help but smile.
Julian was leaning against the doorframe of my home office, arms crossed, a faint, unreadable expression on his face. He’d changed out of the tailored suit he’d worn to a meeting with his mother and into dark jeans and a simple gray sweater. He looked breathtakingly handsome.
“How long have you been standing there?” I asked.
“Long enough to see you trying to solve a problem I could fix with one phone call,” Julian said, his tone mild.
He pushed off the frame and walked into the room, his presence immediately shrinking the space. He didn’t come to my side of the desk. Instead, he stopped at the window, looking out at the city.
“I don’t want you to fix it—or your mom to fix it. Not yet. I want to try first. If it doesn’t work out, then I’ll let you handle it,” I said, the words firmer than intended.
He turned his head, his gaze cutting back to me.
“I know.”
He let the silence stretch.
“You want to prove you can do it without anyone.”
“Is that wrong?”
“No,” he said simply. “It’s just inconvenient for my ego. I want you to need me.”
A real smile touched his lips then—brief, self-deprecating.
“But it’s predictable. You spent half your life proving your worth to people. Why would you stop now?”
He came over then, but instead of looming over the desk, he pulled up the chair opposite me and sat, leaning forward. He rested his elbows on his knees, his eyes intent on mine.
“I don’t like you working so hard,” he admitted. “But I understand why you are.”
Then:
“Pitch it to me.”
I blinked. “What?”
“The proposal. Pitch it to me. Not as your lover—as a potential investor. A ruthless, skeptical, pain-in-the-ass investor who’s heard a thousand pitches just like this one.” He gestured to my papers. “Let’s see if it’s good enough to set you free.”
A strange warmth bloomed in my chest. He wasn’t offering to do it for me; he was offering to help me do it myself.
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and began to speak.
