Chapter13 Midnight Return
Chloe
I swiped to answer, propping the phone against the sink. Steam fogged the mirror behind me.
Julian's face filled the screen, sharp and tired. He was in a hotel suite, Manhattan's skyline twinkling beyond. His jacket was off, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened like an afterthought. A glass of whiskey sat beside an open laptop.
"Chloe." His voice rumbled low, eyes narrowing as they took me in—the damp towel, stray droplets on my collarbone.
"Just finished showering." I tugged the towel higher, but it slipped a fraction, exposing the curve of my neck.
His gaze darkened, lingering. He took a slow sip of whiskey, Adam's apple bobbing. "Room suiting you?"
"It's... fine." I leaned against the counter, water pooling at my feet. "Bigger than our old place. Feels like a dream. Or a movie set."
He set the glass down, leaning closer. "Not a dream. This is yours now."
I glanced away, at the fogged mirror. "Until yesterday, I was dodging leaks in East LA. Listening to dealers count cash through the walls. Now? This." I gestured vaguely. "It's too much. Like I'm playing pretend."
"You're not pretending." His tone sharpened, eyes locking on mine. "You're stronger than you know. Holding down that Goldman job while Mia paraded downstairs. Standing up to Richard. Fighting for your mom. That's real, Chloe."
Heat pricked my eyes. I blinked it back. "Ethan's pissed. Says you're trapping me in a gilded cage."
Julian stilled, jaw tightening. "Is he right? Does it feel like a cage?"
I met his stare through the screen, unflinching. "I don't know. I'm just... tired, Julian. Tired of carrying it all alone." My voice cracked. "So if this is a cage, at least it's comfortable."
His breath caught, audible even over the line. "It's not a cage. It's home." He paused, voice dropping. "And I'll be there soon."
"You said days for the deal."
"Plans change." He stood, shrugging on his jacket. Papers rustled as he gathered files. "Team can handle the rest. I'm flying back tonight."
My pulse stuttered. "Now? It's almost midnight there—"
"Jet's ready." He straightened his tie, movements precise. "Four hours with the time difference. I'll be home by one."
The call ended with a click. I stared at the blank screen, heart hammering. He had dropped everything. For me.
---
I sank onto the bed near midnight, sheets cool against my legs. Sleep wouldn't come—Julian's words echoed, stirring something restless in my chest. One hour. One a.m.
I paced to the vanity, flipping on the light. Makeup drawers gleamed—La Mer creams, Tom Ford lipsticks, brands I'd only window-shopped. His staff had stocked it all.
I picked up a nude lipstick, dusty rose. Soft, not bold. I swiped it on, then wiped it off. What was I doing? Waiting like this felt needy. But the anxiety coiled tighter without distraction.
Ethan's words haunted me: You married a stranger. Maybe. But that night, I wanted to know him. Wanted to see if that look in his eyes—the one that burned through screens—was real.
I glanced in the mirror. Wet hair, bare face, the white silk slip hugging my curves. That was me unarmored. Not the club girl in rented gowns. Not the analyst in stiff suits. Just Chloe—tired, wanting.
I applied the lipstick again, gentle strokes. Lined my eyes lightly, lashes fanning out. Blow-dried my hair, letting it fall in loose waves.
You're dressing for him. The thought hit hard. Mirror-Chloe blushed, avoiding her own gaze.
But yeah. I was.
---
Footsteps echoed downstairs at 1:10 a.m. Maria's murmur, then heavier strides up the stairs. The door handle turned.
Julian pushed in, still in his gray Brioni suit. Tie gone, top buttons undone, revealing tanned skin. Hair tousled from the flight, eyes bloodshot but alive.
He stopped, taking me in—wavy hair, subtle makeup, the slip dress glowing under the lamp.
"You waited." His voice rasped, rough from travel.
"Couldn't sleep." I stood, fingers twisting the hem. "You're back."
He shut the door, leaning against it. His eyes traced me—lips, neck, the silk clinging to my hips. "You did your makeup."
My cheeks flamed. "I... just... You said you'd come home. I wanted to—"
"Look beautiful for me?" He stepped closer, slow, predatory. "Admit it, Chloe. You dressed up waiting."
I backed up, calves hitting the bed. "Maybe."
He cupped my chin, thumb brushing my lip—smearing the color slightly. "Say it."
I nodded, breath shallow.
Fire ignited in his eyes. He crashed his mouth to mine—not gentle, devouring. Tongue demanding, hands sliding to my neck, waist, pulling me flush.
I stiffened slightly, a flash of panic about my scars hitting me, but the silk barrier and his consuming heat made me melt, gripping his jacket.
Heat built, his hardness pressing against me. My knees buckled.
He broke away, breathing hard. "Fuck. Just... let me hold you."
I froze in his arms, his chin on my head. Heart thundered.
"On the plane," he murmured, "I pictured you. What you'd wear. If you'd think of me."
"Julian—"
"You sat here, made up, in this dress." He pulled back, eyes blazing. "You're killing me, Chloe. So beautiful I want to ruin you. Mark every inch so you never leave."
The words scorched. Raw, hungry—not like Richard's sleaze. Not that blurry night. That was want, controlled but fierce.
"I..." My voice shook.
He stroked my neck, feeling my tremor. Then stepped back, fists clenching. "Go wash it off. Sleep. I'll take the guest room."
"What?"
"Can't stay." He turned, shoulders rigid. "I'd lose control. You're not ready."
Hurt flared. "But this is your bed. I can go."
"No." His eyes tortured me. "If I stayed, I'd kiss you. Touch you. Might hurt you."
"Okay." I whispered.
He nodded, once, and left. The door clicked shut.
I collapsed on the bed, lips tingling, swollen. The mirror showed flushed cheeks, smeared lipstick—like I'd been claimed.
"Damn you, Julian Astor."
A smile tugged anyway. Sweet, unbidden.
I woke up the next morning with his kiss still burning on my lips.
I touched them, remembering his grip on my waist, the rasp in his voice: You're killing me, Chloe. Then he had walked away. Left me aching and confused.
What the hell was this marriage becoming?
I showered quickly, avoiding the mirror. I couldn't face the girl who had waited up in silk, painting her lips for a man she barely knew.
The girl who wanted him to lose control.
Downstairs, Maria had set out breakfast—avocado toast, fresh berries, espresso. Ethan was already gone, his door shut tight when I knocked. Still sulking.
My phone buzzed: Julian Astor.
"Morning." His voice was rough, like he hadn't slept either.
"Hey." I cradled the phone, suddenly shy. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep." A pause. Papers rustled. "Car's picking you up at seven-thirty. First day at Astor Capital."
Right. The job. My stomach flipped—nerves and excitement tangled.
"Chloe." His tone shifted, softer. "You ready for this?"
"I think so." I sipped espresso, bitter and bracing. "Just... weird, you know? Yesterday I was dodging Richard at Goldman. Today I'm walking into your company."
"Our company." He corrected gently. "You earned this position. The team doesn't know we're married. Keep it professional."