Chapter 172
Elara
Day Two.
Rain was falling when I left the apartment the next morning, cold drizzle that made everything gray. I stood under the bodega awning with my umbrella, watching the bus stop across the street, trying to decide if I should wait or spend money on a ride.
The Bentley appeared through the rain like a ghost, hazard lights flashing as it pulled up. Julian lowered the window.
"No," I said before he could speak.
"Your canvas bag isn't waterproof." He nodded at my portfolio case. "You'll ruin whatever's inside."
I looked down. He was right—the corner was already getting wet. Inside were three weeks of sketches for my Praxis semifinal. Work I couldn't afford to lose.
I hesitated for three seconds. Then I crossed to the car and got in.
It was warm inside, almost too warm. Julian had coffee waiting—the expensive kind from that place near his office—and a towel on the seat next to me. I dried my face and hands before taking the coffee. It was exactly how I liked it: two sugars, splash of cream, hot but not burning.
"Thank you," I said, because my mother had drilled good manners into me, even when I wanted to throw the coffee in his face.
"You're welcome."
Day Three.
The breakfast bag had a note: "Nutritionist says you need more Omega-3s. Smoked salmon and avocado. —J"
I stared at his handwriting for a long time, my thumb tracing the sharp angles. Then I folded it carefully and put it in my coat pocket. I didn't throw it away. I told myself it was because I might need it later, as evidence of something. But that was a lie.
Day Four.
I fell asleep in the car.
I hadn't meant to. I'd been up until three working on my Praxis piece, eyes burning, hands cramping around the brush. When I got in the warm car and felt it start moving, my body just gave up.
When I woke up, my head was on Julian's shoulder. His jacket was draped over me. We were parked in the school lot with the engine running, and Julian was working on his laptop with one hand. His other arm was curved around my shoulders, keeping me from sliding.
I jerked up, face burning. "How long—"
"Ten minutes." He closed the laptop. "You were exhausted. I didn't want to wake you."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize. You needed rest."
I should have pulled away. Should have grabbed my bag and run. But I was still half-asleep, still disoriented. When Julian said, "Five more minutes?" in that quiet voice, I found myself nodding and settling back against his shoulder.
He smelled like cologne and coffee and something that was just him. For those five minutes, I let myself pretend this was normal. That we were normal. That loving him didn't mean destroying myself.
When his phone alarm went off, I sat up without being asked. Smoothed my hair. Reached for my bag. Julian didn't try to stop me. Just handed me my portfolio and said, "See you this afternoon," like we'd just had an ordinary car ride.
I walked into school with his warmth still on my skin and his cologne on my sweater. I hated myself for how much I'd wanted to stay in that car, in that moment, pretending he could be mine without it costing me everything.
Day Five.
I left class ten minutes early, slipping out while the teacher was still answering questions. The hallways were nearly empty. I moved fast toward the main entrance, portfolio bumping against my hip.
I was getting used to Julian. That was the problem. I was starting to look forward to the warm car, the thoughtful breakfast, the quiet company. And that scared me more than anything Sloane or Victoria had done, because it meant I was softening. Letting him back in through cracks I'd worked so hard to seal.
I needed to break the pattern before it became permanent.
The afternoon sun slanted through the oak trees as I pushed through the doors. I'd make it to the subway before Julian arrived. I'd text him later, something polite and distant, reminding him of the boundaries that had started blurring this week.
I was halfway across the parking lot when a black Bentley pulled up right in front of me, blocking my path.
Atlas got out of the driver's seat. My heart sank.
"Miss Elara." His voice was polite but firm. "Mr. Vane would like to see you."
"I don't want to see him today." I tried to go around the car, but Atlas moved with me.
"It's about the competition. The Praxis semifinals. He has information you'll want to hear."
The words hit their target. I stood there on the cold asphalt, students starting to come out behind me, and felt the trap close.
Three seconds. That's how long I hesitated, weighing my need for distance against my desperate need for any advantage in the competition.
"Fine. But I'm not going to Blackwood."
"He's at the office. I'll take you there."
The office. Neutral ground, or as neutral as anywhere in Julian's world could be. I got in the back seat, and Atlas closed the door with a quiet thud.
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The drive took twenty minutes through rush hour. Atlas didn't try to talk, and I was grateful. I used the silence to remind myself why I'd been avoiding exactly this. Julian had resources I needed—information, connections, power that could open or slam doors—but accepting his help would create a debt I couldn't afford.
I can do this alone, I told myself as we pulled into the underground garage. I have to.
But I felt the exhaustion pulling at me. The weariness of fighting every battle by myself, carrying every burden without help.
The elevator was lined with mirrors. I watched my reflection multiply as we rose through the building. Sixty floors between the street and Julian's domain. With each floor, I felt smaller, more uncertain, until the doors opened and I barely recognized myself.
Atlas led me down a hall of glass and steel, past assistants who looked up with blank faces, to double doors at the end. He knocked once, opened the door, stepped aside.
"Miss Vance," he said, almost apologetic.
I walked through. The doors clicked shut behind me.
Julian's office was exactly what I expected: huge windows overlooking Manhattan, furniture that probably cost more than a year's rent, art I recognized from auction catalogs. The setting sun turned everything gold and amber, painting the room in warm colors that should have felt welcoming but instead felt staged.
Julian stood by the windows with his back to me, hands in his pockets. He'd taken off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were tense. For a long moment he didn't turn around, and I had time to notice: the table set for two by the windows, expensive plates, wine breathing in a crystal decanter. All prepared in advance. Waiting for me.
And on the wall behind his desk, in a simple black frame, was my painting from the Praxis preliminaries. Someone had taken a high-resolution photo and blown it up huge. My broken window, my wounded seedling, impossible to ignore.
"You had no right." The words came out sharp. "How did you even—"
"I bought the photo rights from the competition." He turned to face me. "All of them. Every angle. This one was the best."
"You can't just—" I stopped, because of course he could. He could buy anything. The rules bent around him. "Why?"