Chapter 26 THE LEASH TIGHTENS
Eli’s POV
Julian wakes me before the sun does.
Not with words, but with a hand wrapped around my shoulder, firm and impersonal, shaking me once. When I open my eyes, he’s already turned away, straightening the cuffs of his shirt with the kind of energy people usually reserve for loading guns or sharpening knives.
“Get dressed,” he says. Not looking at me. Not pausing. Just… issuing a command like I’m a part of his morning routine.
I swallow the dryness in my throat.
“Where are we going?”
He glances at me through the mirror, just long enough for my heart to jump, then back to his tie.
“You’ll follow me.”
That’s the whole answer.
No explanation. No softness. Nothing left over from that morning he kissed me so fiercely I could still feel the ghost of it on my mouth.
I force my limbs out of bed. My body aches with exhaustion from barely sleeping, my mind still replaying everything he said yesterday: I own you. You belong to me…
If it weren’t for the faint bruise on his cheek, I could almost convince myself I dreamed it.
I freshened up and got dressed. He waits by the door, coat already on, hand resting lightly on the knob. Anyone else would look like they were preparing to leave. Julian looks like he’s preparing to escort a prisoner.
When I join him, he doesn’t speak to me, he just grabs my wrist. Not harshly, but not kindly either. A functional grip. A handle.
We leave the house like that.
\---
The car ride is silent.
Julian works on his tablet the whole way, scrolling, typing, reading, signing things. I sit beside him, pulse thumping, feeling like I’m trespassing in my own body.
He doesn’t acknowledge me once.
It’s almost worse than anger.
At least anger is human.
This… this coldness, it feels like he’s switched me off in his mind.
When we get to the office, the building security stiffens the moment they see him. The staff bow their heads with fearful politeness as he passes. The receptionist’s gaze flicks to our joined wrists before she averts her eyes quickly.
Julian walks briskly, dragging me in his wake like I’m something attached to him with a leash.
Inside the elevator, I try to gently pull my hand back. Just to see.
His grip tightens.
“No,” he says, eyes on the numbers ascending. “Keep up.”
I stay still.
The elevator doors open to the executive floor. White marble. Silent hallways. An atmosphere so thick with power and fear it makes the air taste metallic.
Everyone who sees us reacts.
Some stare at Julian in awe.
Some stare at me in pity.
Some stare because they still don’t understand how someone like him could be beside someone like me.
And Julian?
He doesn’t give a single glance in my direction.
He leads me into his office and pauses only long enough to say:
“Sit.”
A simple word.
Not harsh or loud. But it strips me of something.
I gently sit on the couch by the wall.
Julian begins working again at his desk, glasses perched low on his nose, jaw sharp and unreadable. He signs documents. Takes calls. Issues orders with a tone so smooth it sends chills down my spine.
A few minutes later, the door opens.
A man walks in: mid-thirties, tall, dressed in black, eyes like someone who’s seen too much and enjoyed too little. He looks like he belongs to the part of Julian’s world I’m not supposed to know about.
“Anton,” Julian says without looking up.
So this is the infamous Anton.
I recognize the name from overheard phone calls, whispered arguments, rumors about “cleaning up operations.”
“Everything’s arranged,” Anton says.
Julian nods. “Good.”
Then they talk.
I try not to listen. But the words seep through the room like poison.
“Pressure points?” Anton asks.
“Yes,” Julian murmurs. “He needs to understand that I’m capable of removing everything he cares about.”
My stomach turns.
Anton sighs. “And the boy?”
My breath halts.
Julian finally looks up. At Anton, not me.
“He comes with me.”
“Everywhere?” Anton asks, sounding surprised.
Julian taps his pen once against the table, eyes cold as winter.
“He needs to see what I’m capable of, too.”
The room feels smaller.
Colder.
Like oxygen is running out.
Anton nods and leaves without a glance in my direction.
The moment the door shuts, I exhale shakily.
Julian doesn’t look at me.
He doesn’t acknowledge that I heard whatever they were talking about.
He just turns a page and continues working.
Like I’m a chair.
A pen.
A thing.
\---
Hours pass like that.
When he goes to meetings, he takes me.
When he walks through the office, he keeps that same grip on my wrist, firm and unyielding, as if I might bolt. People stare openly. Some whisper.
At one point, passing a group of executives, one woman murmurs, “Poor thing.” Another hisses, “Don’t let him hear you say that if you like being alive.”
Julian probably heard. He just doesn’t care.
He doesn’t loosen his hold on me.
If anything, his thumb presses slightly harder into my skin, like a quiet warning for me not to get ideas.
By late afternoon, the whispers have grown legs and sprinted into the internet.
I don’t have to read anything to know it.
Julian’s phone buzzes nonstop.
His jaw ticks.
He scrolls briefly, scoffs, puts the phone face-down.
Finally, during a moment between meetings, I force out the question burning a hole in my throat.
“People… people online are asking what’s going on between us.”
He didn't respond.
“They keep calling me your spouse.” I added.
He closes a folder with deliberate calm. “You are.”
I blink. “Julian, we don’t even—”
“I didn’t ask for commentary,” he cuts in, standing. “Get up.”
The words have the weight of a blade.
I get up.
He grabs my wrist again before we exit the office.
This time I flinch.
Not dramatically.
Just slightly.
He notices.
His grip doesn’t loosen.
If anything, his fingers curl tighter around me, almost possessively, but without affection. More like… ownership. He's being territorial.
The hallway is quiet.
Every footstep echoes.
I feel people watching from the corners of their eyes.
Julian walks, dragging me beside him with efficient, controlled authority.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so visible and so invisible at the same time.
\---
On the way back to the car, the security team swarms us, guiding us through a swarm of paparazzi. Flashlights burst like gunfire. Questions fly.
“Mr. Thorne! Is your marriage in trouble?”
“Who is he really?”
“Why hasn’t your spouse been seen in public alone?”
“Is this an arranged marriage”
“Are the rumors true about—”
Julian doesn’t respond.
He just pulls me closer, arm sliding tightly around my waist now, not for affection? No, Julian freaking Thorne does not do affection… but because he needs to maneuver me like a shield.
The reporters take pictures of the way he grips me.
The way I’m pressed against his side.
The way I look like I’m barely breathing.
They don’t understand what they’re seeing.
Hell, I barely do.
Once we’re inside the car, the door slams shut and silence settles.
Julian exhales once, long and slow.
He looks almost annoyed. Not at me, just at the world. I hope.
He flicks his gaze to me, assessing something.
Then he speaks in that low, calm voice that scares me more than yelling ever could.
“You will act more natural when we're out in public,” he says. “From now on.”
A non negotiable statement.
I force myself to ask, “And if I say no?”
His eyes sharpen like a knife catching light.
“You won’t.”
My mouth dries. “How do you know that?”
“Because,” he says, turning away, “you don’t get to say no.”
The city passes outside the window in blurs.
Julian takes off his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, then puts them back on as if resetting himself.
“We’re heading to a restaurant for dinner, behave well.” He adds quietly, almost to
himself.
I don't know to beat myself up well enough for having some sort of romantic thought for this man. He's an asshole. A heartless, scheming devil.
And whatever he’s planning…
I’m already part of it.
Whether I want to be or not.