Chapter 62
Sienna's pov
From what I could tell, Julian didn’t seem like the type to hold a grudge over Luna’s threat.
But what if he did?
I needed him to let it go, at least for my sake.
“Sienna.” Luna’s voice shook. “Did you hear what he just said? How am I supposed to be calm?”
I wasn’t calm either, but panic wouldn’t help either of us. “Wait until he actually does something,” I told her. “Then you can worry.”
Luna’s jaw clenched, anger and fear fighting for space on her face, yet she didn’t push the argument further. The truth was humiliating and simple: right now, neither of us had real power.
Julian chuckled and gave a light, mocking clap. “Ms. Price is lucky to have a friend like Ms. Reed. Fine, Ms. Reed. Forget what I said earlier.”
Luna stared at him, incredulous. “So you were just messing with me?”
“You can test me,” Julian said smoothly, “so why can’t I test you?” His gaze slid to me, deliberate in a way that made my skin tighten. “You’re afraid I’ll use Ms. Price, but you’re closest to her. I’d be stupid not to consider whether you have your own agenda. Good friends become enemies all the time.”
Luna looked ready to explode, but the words wouldn’t arrange themselves into a clean rebuttal. My temples throbbed. Julian didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to. He could turn suspicion into a blade and hand you the handle.
I met his eyes and kept mine steady, because flinching was a habit I was trying to bury.
“Mr. Vane,” I said, slow and clear, “Luna is my best friend. You are my business partner.”
It wasn’t cruelty. It was a boundary.
Julian nodded, and something flickered across his expression—hurt, maybe, or calculation wearing a better mask.
“I understand,” he said quietly. “I still want to matter to you.”
For a moment, the words didn’t fit the room. This was a partnership, not a confession. He only needed me functional enough to stand against Harrison; why did he want more?
The baby inside me felt suddenly heavier, as if my body insisted on making everything real.
“Mr. Vane,” I said, ending it before it could turn into a trap, “everything is just beginning.”
I looked out the window as we neared Golden Harbor and forced my voice back to casual. “Did Vanya choose the restaurant herself?”
“Of course,” Julian replied easily. “Golden Harbor isn’t just a place to eat. She probably has a gift for you.”
“A gift?” The word tasted strange.
“You’ll see.”
When we reached the private room, I understood.
Vanya was there, dressed in black, a small camera in hand like an extension of her arm. She stepped close the moment she saw me, speaking low and fast.
“Harrison brought his mistress,” she said. “Next room.”
Cold ran down my spine.
She turned the camera screen toward me. Quick shots—partial angles, reflections—enough to show closeness, not enough to break him in court.
“Not intimate enough,” Vanya muttered, annoyed. “I’ll fix that later. But it’s still evidence. It helps your divorce.”
Since her own divorce, she’d made a living online hunting proof of infidelity, and places like Golden Harbor were full of men who thought money made them untouchable.
“This is dangerous,” I said before I could stop myself.
Vanya’s mouth tightened. “So is letting them get away with it.”
She lifted a finger in a brief beckon. “Want to see what he’s doing?”
The temptation hit hard. I knew too little about Harrison’s days now, and the ignorance burned almost as much as the betrayal. My feet moved before I fully agreed, and Luna didn’t stop me.
The hallway was dim and quiet, thick carpet swallowing our steps. Vanya crouched by the neighboring door and angled her camera toward a narrow gap, practiced and precise.
I leaned in.
Inside the room, the light was low, men in suits half-shadowed around a table crowded with bottles. A woman drifted toward the seat that could only belong to Harrison.
Even blurred by distance and shadow, I recognized Elena Whitmore the way you recognize an old wound.
A man’s voice carried first, amused. “Mr. Blackwood, we’re relaxing tonight, no business. But I’m curious… the one beside you isn’t your wife, is she?”
My jaw locked.
Elena answered with sugar-coated softness. “I don’t want Sienna to be sad. It’s just a title. It doesn’t matter. As long as Harrison truly loves me, that’s enough for me.”
I waited for him to deny it. To correct her. To put distance where he’d promised there would be distance.
Instead, I saw him reach out and stroke her hair.
Something in me turned over.
“I need the restroom,” I said, and my voice sounded clipped, already cracking.
Nausea rose fast—part pregnancy, part pure disgust. I moved too quickly down the hall, shoes skidding slightly on the tile. A sharp thread of smoke caught in my throat, making my head swim.
I made it to the sink and folded over it, vomiting until my stomach cramped. Tears burned, and I told myself it was only my body reacting.
Not grief.
I shouldn’t have believed him. Not once.
He could still touch Elena—the woman who murdered Nora Everly—like my mother’s life was a minor inconvenience, like it didn’t stain him at all. Rage sharpened behind my ribs, clean and ugly.
If I could destroy the Blackwoods, I would.
I rinsed my mouth, wiped my face, and tried to fix my makeup with shaking hands. I didn’t notice the footsteps until a shadow filled the mirror.
Harrison.
My lipstick slipped from my fingers and clattered into the sink.
His hand closed around my wrist before I could retreat.
My blood froze. ‘No. Not here.’
He dragged me out of the restroom and down the hall, then shoved open an empty private room and pulled me inside. The door locked with a decisive click that went straight through me.
He pushed me onto the couch. I scrambled back until the armrest trapped me, hands lifting instinctively as if they could stop him.
His gaze pinned me, cold and assessing.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, low and clipped.
“If you can be here,” I shot back, forcing my spine straight, “why can’t I?”
“This place is dangerous,” he said, and he sat too close, his arm boxing me in. “You shouldn’t be here.”
For a split second, the deep frown on his face almost looked like concern.
Almost.
I shoved at his chest. “Get off. You don’t get to control me.”
He tightened his grip anyway, turning it into something that could pass for an embrace if the door opened. Tobacco clung to him, a scent that used to mean comfort and power.
Now it made me sick.
“I have no right?” His mouth curved with a sharp edge. “Then who does? Julian?”
He lifted my chin, forcing me to look at him. “I haven’t agreed to a divorce, and you’re already this eager?”
“Get off me.” My voice shook despite my effort.
Then I caught it—alcohol, unmistakable.
Harrison had been drinking again.
I didn’t have time to ask why.
He kissed me, sudden and hard, stealing the air from my lungs.