Chapter 69: My Woman—Who Dared Touch Her?
Julian lounged against a high stool, idly rolling the stem of his wineglass, watching the dark red wine catch the light. He wasn’t really tasting it. His thoughts kept drifting back to Cora—how she might be telling her mother, whether she’d need him to step in.
Say the word and I’ll end this for you, he found himself thinking, and the wanting in it surprised him.
“Julian!”
Laura’s voice knifed through the low hum of the bar. She’d doused herself in something sharp and sugary, then tottered over in a painted-on dress, breathless and triumphant.
“What a coincidence,” she cooed, sliding onto the stool beside him as if she belonged there.
Julian didn’t look at her. He swirled the wine once, took a measured sip.
She leaned closer, pressing her chest forward. “Why are you alone? Where’s my sis—”
A hand appeared between them, a clean, immovable wall. “Please keep your distance,” Austin said evenly. “Mr. Watson is allergic to cheap perfume.”
Color flared across Laura’s cheekbones. She opened her mouth—Austin’s phone rang.
He listened for all of six seconds, face turning to stone. “Mr. Watson,” he said, voice clipped, “Mrs. Watson’s being surrounded. They’re trying to jump her.”
Julian set his glass down without a sound and was already moving.
“Wait for me!” Laura scraped off her stool and, shameless as ever, followed.
—
At the beauty center, chaos had already bloomed.
Cora had her mother tucked behind her, spine to the wall. The security man Julian had assigned blocked the first swing, but more hands rushed their way—the salon manager shouting something about “thieves,” the mistress braying orders like it was a street brawl she’d paid for.
“Mrs. Watson, behind me,” the guard said, widening his stance.
Cora tightened her arm around her mother. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” she whispered, even as the edges of her vision fuzzed.
Her mother’s face had gone the color of paper. The words he promised to marry me once I’m pregnant kept scraping through Cora’s skull like glass. Then came the shove, the flurry of fists—her mother curled over her to shield her just like she had when Cora was a child.
Julian… where are you? Please—now.
The building answered her instead: a violent crack of glass exploding inward.
Heads whipped toward the entrance.
The front doors were hanging crooked on broken hinges. Julian walked through the wreckage, tailored coat unruffled, eyes like winter.
His gaze found Cora first—sweeping over the bruise blooming along her mother’s cheek, the mess, the red mark on Cora’s arm. His mouth cut a hard line.
“My woman—who the hell dared to touch her?”