Chapter8 Sleep? Impossible
Chloe
At Astor Capital, the sleek glass building made Goldman look shabby by comparison. The first interview went smoothly—the department director grilled me on financial modeling, and my answers flowed with confidence. The second round brought the HR director and CFO, testing my ability to handle pressure.
"Congratulations, Ms. Harrison. You've passed both rounds. Senior leadership will conduct the final interview—we'll contact you within the week."
Walking out, I checked my phone. Two other boutique firms had responded with interview requests.
I couldn't put all my hopes in Astor Capital, even if Julian owned it. I needed backup options.
Before heading to my afternoon interview, my phone rang. Evelyn.
"Just checking on you, darling," her voice dripped false sweetness. "Still job hunting? I suppose your husband can't even help with that."
"Poor Mia met one of Julian's wealthy cousins at a dinner last week—spent thousands on a designer dress, but he completely ignored her."
Mia's tearful voice carried through. "Mom, did he find out I grew up poor?"
"Sweetheart, you're still better than Chloe—at least you're our real daughter."
My grip tightened. "Is there a point to this call?"
"Just wondering how you're managing with that bankrupt cripple. Where are you even living?"
"Where I live is none of your business." My voice turned ice-cold. "But tell Mia she wasted that money because people in those circles can smell desperation a mile away. No amount of Chanel can hide the fact that she's a social climber with no class."
Mia shrieked. "At least I'm trying to move up! You're stuck serving a crippled has-been!"
"You want to know why he ignored you, Mia? Because you reek of nouveau riche desperation. People who actually belong can see right through you."
I ended the call, my hand shaking.
The afternoon interview at the boutique firm went exactly as I'd expected—polite smiles, vague promises, and an offer insultingly low.
When they quoted $120,000, I'd kept my face neutral and said I'd consider it, but inside I was seething. That was $30,000 less than what I'd made at Goldman.
Walking out, reality crashed down on me.
If Astor Capital's final round didn't work out, I might have no choice but to crawl back and accept that humiliating offer. The thought made my stomach churn.
After everything I'd fought through—the weight loss, rebuilding my confidence, escaping Richard's harassment—was I really going to let some boutique firm lowball me?
Though the fifty thousand dollars had eased my immediate panic, being unemployed meant I still had to count every penny.
I shook off the spiraling thoughts.
Ethan had been training brutally hard for his upcoming games—I'd heard him dragging himself home exhausted every night this week. The least I could do was cook him something decent, fuel him properly.
I was at the East LA supermarket, carefully selecting discounted vegetables and chicken breast, mentally planning his favorite high-protein dishes.
Walking home with two heavy bags, I noticed the same cluster of elderly women from yesterday, this time pointing at a familiar black Rolls-Royce.
"It's back again! Two days in a row!"
My heart skipped. Julian was waiting for me again.
He stepped out as I approached, looking unfairly handsome in a charcoal suit, clearly having come straight from some business meeting. Without a word, he took both bags from my hands.
"You didn't have to come again," I said, though warmth spread through my chest.
"Yes, I did." His amber eyes held mine. "I told you—I want to be part of your real life. That includes picking you up from work."
As we climbed the stairs, he asked about my day. I told him about passing the first two rounds at Astor Capital, grateful for the opportunity he provided but proud that I earned the advancement on my own merits.
"And the other interview?" he asked casually.
I stopped on the landing, turning to face him. "How do you always know these things?"
"I pay attention to what matters to me." His free hand came up to cup my face. "You matter to me, Chloe."
---
In the kitchen, we fell into an easy rhythm.
Julian was getting better at chopping vegetables, though he still needed guidance.
The small space forced us close, and I was acutely aware of every brush of his hand against mine, every time his chest pressed against my back as he reached around me.
"You're getting good at this," I said as he competently diced tomatoes.
"I have a good teacher." His voice was warm. "Though I'm starting to think you keep this kitchen small on purpose."
"On purpose?"
He set down the knife and turned me to face him, backing me gently against the counter. "So we have to stay close like this." His hands settled on either side of me, caging me in. "I'm not complaining."
My breath caught. "Julian—"
"Tell me about the other interview. How did it go?"
I bit my lip. "They offered me the position. $120,000 annually."
"Below your Goldman salary."
"I know. I asked for $163,000. They said they'd get back to me." I looked up at him. "They won't. I could see it in their faces. But I wasn't going to undervalue myself just because I'm desperate."
Something fierce and proud flashed in his eyes. "Good. You shouldn't." His thumb traced my lower lip. "Though you should know—if you come work for me, you'll earn every dollar of your salary. I don't do charity, remember?"
"I know."
"During work hours, you'll call me Mr. Astor. I'll call you Ms. Harrison. Complete professional boundaries." His voice dropped, intimate and rough. "But after hours, when we're home..." He leaned in, his lips nearly brushing my ear. "After hours, you're mine."
Heat pooled in my stomach. "Yours?"
"Mine," he confirmed, pulling back to look at me. "My wife. In every sense of the word."
Over dinner, Ethan was quieter than usual, his eyes tracking Julian's every movement with barely concealed hostility. When Julian's hand casually rested on my lower back as he reached for the salt, Ethan's jaw tightened.
"So you're staying tonight?" Ethan asked, his tone carefully neutral.
"Yes," Julian replied calmly.
Ethan's fork clattered against his plate.
"Ethan," I warned softly.
"We're married," Julian said, his voice reasonable but firm. "It's natural for married couples to live together. Though I understand this is an adjustment for you."
"An adjustment," Ethan repeated flatly. He stood abruptly. "I'm going to my room."
After he left, I sighed. "He'll come around. He just needs time."
"I know." Julian's hand found mine across the table.
Julian stood, pulling me gently toward the bedroom.
"Come on," he murmured. "It's late."
I hesitated by the door, suddenly hyperaware of my thin sleep shirt and shorts—old cotton that hugged my curves too closely, the fabric whispering against my skin with every breath.
Julian turned from the window, his silhouette sharp against the night. His amber eyes raked over me slowly, darkening as they lingered on my bare legs, the soft rise of my breasts, the vulnerable line of my collarbone.
The air thickened; he looked at me like I was his undoing, a hunger in his gaze that made my pulse thunder.
"The bed is small," he rasped, closing the distance in two strides, his cologne—clean, masculine—wrapping around me.
"I can—"
"No." His fingers grazed my arm, sending sparks through my skin, guiding me to the mattress.
I slid under the threadbare sheet, cool against my flushed body. He followed, the bed dipping sharply, forcing our bodies flush—his chest to my back, thigh slotted between mine, arm snaking over my waist.
"Relax," he murmured, lips brushing my nape, breath hot. His hand splayed across my stomach, fingers tracing lazy circles under the hem of my shirt, inching lower toward my hip.
Each stroke ignited fire in my veins; I arched instinctively, craving more, even as panic flickered—the scar on my left waist, jagged from the accident, a secret I'd buried deep.
"Julian..." I tensed, hand hovering to stop him, self-conscious of that ugly mark. His fingers dipped lower, brushing the edge of my shorts, so close to exposing the scar I held my breath, heart slamming.
Then my phone buzzed sharply on the nightstand, shattering the haze.
Unknown Number: Ms. Harrison, Astor Capital HR. Final interview Friday, 10 AM. Confirm?
I fumbled for it, breath ragged, quickly typing yes.
"Good news?" Julian's voice was husky, his hand stilling but warm on my skin.
"Final interview." Relief and regret tangled in my chest.
He exhaled, pulling me closer. "Good."
But the interruption lingered, electric tension humming between us.
Sleep? Impossible.
Julian’s thumb traced a slow circle on my stomach, dipping lower, igniting sparks that shoot straight through me.
He shifted closer, his chest solid against me, thigh nudging between mine. "Now, where were we?"