Chapter 11 GUNSHOTS
Eli’s POV)
The gunfire died as suddenly as it began.
What followed was worse… silence, thick and pulsing, broken only by the sound of my heartbeat slamming against my ribs. For a second, I couldn’t tell if the ringing in my ears was fear or the echo of bullets.
Then came the sirens.
Blue and red lights flashed behind us, growing brighter, louder, as the world is rushing back into motion. Police. Dozens of them.
The driver’s voice cracked through the chaos. “Mr. Thorne, we’re being followed by law enforcement!”
Julian didn’t answer right away. His eyes were cold and still, scanning the streets ahead as if memorizing every shadow. His arm was still around me, anchoring me even as I tried to pull away.
“Let them follow,” he finally said, voice steady as iron. “They’re late, as usual.”
The car cut through traffic, speeding toward the high gates of his penthouse estate. I caught my reflection in the dark window; I looked pale, eyes wide, a stranger wearing my skin.
When we finally rolled to a stop inside the drive, the sirens were deafening. Red-blue-red-blue; the color of chaos.
Police cars surrounded us in a tight circle, lights slicing across the marble facade of the house. The driver’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
Julian turned to me, calm as if we’d just returned from lunch. “Eli,” he said, his tone low but precise, “don’t say anything to the police. Ignore all questions.”
I blinked. “What?”
He looked straight ahead. “They won’t ask the right questions. The best thing you can do is look traumatized.”
“Shouldn’t be hard,” I muttered, my voice trembling. “I don’t even have enemies, Julian. But apparently, I’ve acquired some as a wedding gift from the almighty Julian Thorne.”
His eyes flicked toward me, unreadable. “You’re shaking.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh, the sound cracking in my throat. “Uhmm, because I just got shot at?”
The corner of his mouth twitched; not quite amusement, not sympathy either. “Control it,” he murmured. “They smell fear. Just play the perfect traumatized-can’t-speak part; don't look too afraid, else they'd know to target you instead.”
“Who? The police?”
He didn’t answer. Which, somehow, made it worse.
The doors opened. Cold air rushed in.
The driver got out first, then Julian. I followed, my legs barely cooperating. The second I stepped onto the pavement, flashes exploded from beyond the gates — journalists, paparazzi, whoever could buy access to chaos this fast.
The questions came like bullets.
“Mr. Thorne, were you attacked?”
“Is your husband injured?”
“Was this politically motivated?”
Julian raised one hand; not to wave, but to silence. And, unbelievably, it worked. The crowd quieted, feeding on his composure.
He turned to the nearest officer, a broad-shouldered man whose posture screamed authority. “I expect you’ve secured the area.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer said, slightly too respectful. “We’re investigating the source of the shots. We’ll need statements from you and—” his gaze shifted to me “—your spouse.”
Julian’s arm was at my back before I could speak. “My husband is shaken. You’ll get my statement. That will suffice.”
The officer hesitated, eyes flicking between us. “With all due respect, Mr. Thorne—”
Julian smiled, the kind that wasn’t really a smile. “Respect is always conditional, Officer. Don’t make me revoke it.”
I swallowed hard. The police stepped back. Cameras clicked in rapid-fire bursts. The air smelled like smoke, metal, and tension.
Julian moved through it like it was theater.
He spoke to the lead detective, calm, efficient… describing what happened, controlling the narrative without ever raising his voice. Every word from him was a carefully measured currency.
I stood a few feet away, half-listening, half-floating. Reporters were shouting again, their voices blending into one sharp, incoherent hum. Someone asked if this was connected to a recent corporate deal. Someone else asked if I was the “reason” for the attack.
Julian ignored them all.
He reached for me after a few minutes — not gently, but deliberately, guiding me toward the house. “Inside,” he said under his breath.
“What about—”
“They’ll get what I give them.”
“Which is?”
“Enough.”
We crossed the marble steps under a thousand flashes. The sound of shutters filled the air, recording every second of our silence.
Julian didn’t slow until the front doors closed behind us, sealing off the noise.
Inside, the quiet was almost unbearable.
My knees gave out the second I felt safe enough to let them. I sat on the edge of the nearest couch, palms over my face, trying to steady my breathing.
Julian’s shoes clicked across the floor, measured, unhurried. He poured himself a drink, the ice clinking against the glass like punctuation.
“I told you,” he said quietly, “my world feeds on weakness.”
I looked up, raw and exhausted. “And it shoots at people for breakfast?”
He didn’t smile. “That was a message.”
“From who?”
He took a slow sip before answering. “That’s what I’ll find out.”
Something in his tone — too calm, too certain — made my stomach twist.
“Do you even care that someone tried to kill us?” I snapped.
Julian’s gaze finally met mine. “If they wanted to kill us, they would’ve aimed better.”
The words shouldn’t have made sense, but they did. In the worst way.
I realized then that fear wasn’t new to Julian. It was familiar; something he’d lived beside long enough to stop flinching from it.
I was still shaking.
Julian noticed again, this time without commenting. He simply crossed the space between us, crouched down, and set his glass aside. For a heartbeat, I thought he might touch me… but he didn’t.
“Go upstairs,” he said instead. “You need to rest.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“You will,” he said. “Shock makes the body crave stillness.”
His hand brushed mine, just enough to anchor me, to pull me back into the present.
“Julian…” I began, voice low. “What if next time, they don’t miss?”
He straightened, his expression carved from stone. “Then next time,” he said, “they won’t get the chance to aim.”
He turned and walked away before I could reply, the sound of his steps disappearing into the echo of the sirens still fading outside.
And somewhere between the flashes, the silence, and the scent of his cologne still clinging to the air, I realized something terrifying — Julian wasn’t just dangerous because of what he could do.
He was dangerous because of what he’d already accepted
That this was normal.
That chaos was just another part of his well organized and controlled life.
And now, I was part of it too.