Chapter 15 The Wrong Sterling
Elena: POV
"One moment." Morrison leaned in close, whispering something I couldn't quite hear. The server's expression remained neutral, but he nodded quickly before disappearing.
Morrison turned back to me with that same genial smile. "There. Much better. Now, while we wait, why don't you walk me through the design process? I'm fascinated by how you achieved such fluidity in the draping."
For the next ten minutes, he was the perfect client—asking intelligent questions, genuinely interested in the craftsmanship, complimenting specific details that showed he actually understood fashion.
I started to relax, thinking maybe Marcus's warning had been overblown.
The server returned with my lemon juice in a crystal tumbler, ice clinking against the sides. Morrison tipped him generously before the man disappeared again.
"Thank you." I took the glass.
"To successful partnerships," Morrison said, raising his whiskey.
I lifted my glass in return and took a long sip. The lemon juice was tart, refreshing, exactly what I needed.
We continued discussing the collection. Morrison asked about production timelines, fabric sourcing, how the designs would translate to different body types. He seemed knowledgeable, professional.
Where the hell was Julian?
I glanced at my watch. 2:15. He was late.
"I'm sure he'll be here any moment," Morrison said, following my gaze. "Julian's a busy man. I'm sure you understand that better than anyone."
Something in his tone made me look up, but his expression remained pleasant.
I took another sip of my lemon juice, trying to calm my nerves.
That's when I felt it.
A strange heaviness settling over my limbs. The room seemed to tilt slightly, like I was on a boat.
No.
I set the glass down carefully, my hand shaking. "I'm sorry, I... I don't feel well."
Morrison's smile didn't waver, but his eyes changed. Sharpened. Like a predator that had been patiently waiting for its prey to weaken.
"Don't you?" He took a slow sip of his whiskey, watching me over the rim of the glass. "That's unfortunate."
My vision blurred at the edges. I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't cooperate.
"What did you..." My tongue felt thick, useless.
"Just a little something to help you relax." Morrison set down his glass and moved closer, all pretense of civility gone. His hand landed on my shoulder, fingers digging in possessively. "Don't fight it, sweetheart. It'll be easier if you just let go."
Horror crashed through me. The server. Whatever Morrison had whispered to him. The lemon juice.
"You... drugged me..."
"Smart girl." His hand slid down my back. "Though not smart enough, apparently. Did you really think Julian Sterling gives a shit about you? He's with Victoria right now. His real woman. You're just a warm body he keeps around for convenience."
I tried to push him away, but my arms felt like they were moving through water. "Get... away..."
"See, that's where you're wrong." Morrison's breath was hot against my ear now. "You need to understand how this works. Sterling and I are about to close a hundred-million-dollar deal. You think he's going to jeopardize that over a piece of ass? Please."
Tears burned in my eyes. My phone. I needed my phone.
I fumbled for it in my jacket pocket, my fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. Morrison watched with an amused smile, making no move to stop me. Like he knew it wouldn't matter.
I managed to pull it out, my vision swimming as I tried to find Julian's contact. The screen blurred and doubled.
Finally, I hit dial.
"What is it, Elena?" His voice was clipped, impatient. "I'm busy."
"Julian..." My words slurred together, barely coherent. "Help... please..."
"Elena, I don't have time for this right now. Victoria's doctor just called, she's having another panic attack. I need to get to her apartment."
"I've been... drugged..." I gasped out, my vision going dark at the edges. "The Whitmore Club... please..."
"Stop being dramatic," he snapped. "You're fine. Whatever game you're playing, I don't have time for it. I'll see you later."
The line went dead.
He'd hung up on me.
My husband had just hung up on me while I was being drugged and assaulted.
The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering on the hardwood floor.
"Well," Morrison said, picking it up and pocketing it. "I guess that answers that question, doesn't it? Now, let's get you somewhere more comfortable."
He hauled me to my feet, his arm wrapping around my waist as my legs buckled. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll take much better care of you than Sterling ever did. I promise."
My head lolled against his shoulder as he dragged me toward the door. I tried to scream, but no sound came out.
The hallway tilted and spun. Down a back staircase I barely registered through my haze. My feet dragged on the carpet. Everything was going dark.
The October air hit my face as he pushed through a service exit. A black car waited in the alley, engine running.
"Almost there," Morrison muttered, hauling me toward the car.
"Let her go."
The voice cut through my delirium—cold, commanding, edged with lethal fury.
Morrison froze.
Through my blurred vision, I saw a man step out from behind a parked car. Tall. Brown-haired. Wearing a charcoal suit that looked just like Julian's.
He came. He came for me after all.
"Who the fuck are you?" Morrison demanded, his grip on me tightening.
"Alexander Sterling." He crossed the alley in three strides. "And you just made the worst mistake of your pathetic life."
Morrison's face went white. "I didn't—she wanted—"
"Shut up."
Alexander's fist connected with Morrison's jaw, and I heard something crack. Morrison released me, stumbling backward, and I collapsed onto the cold pavement.
Alexander said, his voice deadly calm as he stood over Morrison's crumpled form. "If you don't want trouble, get the fuck out of here. This woman is under my protection now."
Morrison seemed to recognize who he was, and fled.
Then he turned to me.
Through my hazy vision, I saw his face—sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, that same aristocratic bearing as Julian. The resemblance was striking, though his features were slightly more weathered, carrying the weight of a few more years.
Maybe mid-thirties. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes suggested someone who'd lived more, seen more. But there was something softer in his expression. Something almost... kind.
"Easy," he said, kneeling beside me on the dirty pavement. "You're safe now."
My body was burning up, the drug making everything feel too hot, too overwhelming. I reached for him instinctively, my hands finding his lapels.
"You came," I whispered, my eyes barely focusing on his face. "I knew you'd come for me."
His expression flickered—surprise, then something that looked like pain.
"Josephine, I'm not—"
But I wasn't listening. I collapsed forward, and he caught me, his arms wrapping around me as everything went dark.
The last thing I felt was him lifting me, cradling me against his chest, his voice soft in my ear: "I've got you. You're safe."