My home.
Our home.
“How,” I snap, already reaching for a clean shirt. “How the hell was he in my penthouse?”
“Security didn’t stop him.” Rowan’s voice darkens. “He was already inside when I arrived. And Lucy...”
My hands freeze on the buttons.
“Lucy was standing by your desk,” Rowan says. “Tears streaming down her face. Not quiet tears, Julian. Not the kind she could pretend weren’t happening.”
My stomach turns hard.
“She was shaking,” he adds. “Like she was trying to hold herself together and failing.”
I swallow once. It doesn’t help.
“What did he say to her?”
“I didn’t hear the start of it.” Rowan pauses. I can hear him exhale through his nose, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “But I heard the end. She screamed at him. Told him to get out.”
I’m changing out of my own dress pants now, hands jerky, angry. The movements are all wrong, too fast, too rough, like speed will fix what I broke.
“And when I stepped in,” Rowan says, “she wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was looking at your desk.”
My heart stutters. I ask the question, I know I don't want to hear the answer, too, but I need to hear it.
“What was on my desk?”
Rowan goes quiet again.
I slam my palm against the dresser hard enough to rattle the lamp. “Rowan.”
There’s a beat, then: “A pile of documents. Pictures. A black folder.”
My blood goes cold so fast I can feel it.
The black folder.
I’m suddenly not in this hotel room. I’m in my office months ago, my father across from me like a goddamn king, at the restaurant with Theo and Richards speech about Legacy... his stupid superior smile.
A selection, Julian. Options. You’ll thank me later.
I’d locked it away. Not because I was tempted, but because I wasn't interested. Because the entire thing felt like a violation.
“Why the hell did you keep it?” Rowan asks, flat.
“I didn’t,” I snap. “I don’t even know how it got into my home office. That folder was locked at Northwell. In my desk. I barely looked at it when he gave it to me, and I haven't thought about it since.”
Rowan’s silence this time is heavier.
I shove socks on and then my shoes. My hands are shaking. Not with fear.
With rage.
“I opened it once,” I admit, voice tight. “Once. To confirm it was exactly what I thought it was. Then I locked it away becauseI didn’t want it in my life, near my company, near my...” I choke on the word. “Near Lucy.”
Rowan makes a sound, barely there. Disgust. Pity. Something sharp. “Well,” he says, “it was.”
