Chapter 23
Elara
I didn't respond him. Instead, I watched the city pass. The sun glinted off glass towers. People walked their dogs. Bought coffee. Lived ordinary lives that had nothing to do with broken watches or family politics.
Atlas's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Back to the road. Back to the mirror. He was watching us.
Julian finally spoke again. "The hotel's internal investigation is complete." He reached into the briefcase beside him. Withdrew a leather folder. Set it on the seat between us. His movements were deliberate. Careful. "Read it."
I opened the folder. Crisp white paper. Embossed letterhead: "The Ritz-Carlton Boston".
The report was thorough. Detailed. A temporary kitchen worker had allegedly added benzodiazepines to the sobering soup. The employee had been terminated. Had signed an NDA. The hotel offered the Vane family "symbolic compensation."
There was even a photo. A grainy employee ID. A signature I'd never seen before.
Perfect. Too perfect.
I closed the folder slowly. A bitter smile touched my lips. My throat felt tight.
"It's exactly what I thought."
The words came out barely audible. I hadn't meant to say them out loud.
Julian's head turned. "What did you say?"
I looked at him directly. Met his eyes. They were dark blue. Tired. There were lines at the corners I hadn't noticed before.
"I said, it's very thorough. Thank you for going to such lengths to clear Ms. Kennedy's name, Mr. Vane."
The formal address landed between us. I watched his face. Saw the way his jaw tightened. The muscle that jumped near his ear.
"You think I'm protecting her?" His voice was low. Dangerous. "Elara, the evidence is right there—"
"I'm not interested in arguing, Mr. Vane." I turned back to the window. My reflection stared back at me. Pale. Composed. Nothing like the girl who used to beg him to believe her. "You've already decided what you want to believe. My opinion doesn't matter."
I felt him looking at me. The weight of his gaze on the side of my face. I kept my eyes on the window.
In the rearview mirror, Atlas's eyebrows rose slightly. He looked surprised. Maybe everyone was surprised when I stopped playing the role they'd assigned me.
The car turned. I recognized the street. Tree-lined. Expensive. Tribeca.
My stomach dropped.
The building appeared. Sleek glass and steel. Twenty-four stories overlooking the Hudson River. Julian's private residence.
I knew this place. In my previous life, he'd kept me here for months. Hidden away. Because he didn't want his grandfather to see me pregnant. Because I was something to be ashamed of.
My hands tightened on my bag.
"I need to go back to Blackwood Estate," I said. My voice came out steady. Calm. I was proud of that.
Julian's mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Something colder. "I said you need to cool down. Victoria is still furious, and I'm not sending you back until things settle."
"Mr. Vane—"
"Get out."
His tone was final. No room for discussion. The same tone he used with employees. With people who didn't matter.
Atlas opened my door. Cold air rushed in. I climbed out slowly. Gripped my bag tighter. The broken watch was still inside. Wrapped in my blood-stained handkerchief.
---
The lobby was all white marble and chrome. A doorman in a burgundy uniform nodded as we passed. The elevator was mirrored on all sides. I watched our reflections multiply. Julian tall and composed in his charcoal suit. Me small and disheveled in my school uniform.
We looked like we belonged to different worlds.
The elevator opened directly into his penthouse. No hallway. No buffer. Just straight into his private space.
I stepped inside. The apartment was exactly as I remembered. Floor-to-ceiling windows covering two walls. The Hudson River spread out below, gray and churning. The furniture was minimal. Black leather sofa. White marble coffee table. Chrome fixtures. Everything clean. Sharp. Cold.
No personal items. No photos. No books left lying open. It looked like a hotel suite. A very expensive hotel suite where no one actually lived.
The kitchen was separated from the living area by a long black marble counter. A middle-aged woman stood there chopping vegetables. She wore a simple gray dress. Her hair was pulled back. She looked up as we entered. Her eyes moved from Julian to me. Confusion crossed her face.
"Leave it," Julian said. He didn't look at her. "I'll have someone else handle lunch."
Mrs. Chen—I remembered her name from before—blinked. She glanced at me again. Then gathered her coat and purse from a hook by the kitchen. She left quickly. The door clicked shut behind her.
The silence pressed in.
Julian moved to the dining table. The black marble slab that could seat eight but probably never had. He opened his laptop. His fingers moved across the keys. Quick. Efficient. He didn't look at me.
"There's fresh ingredients in the fridge. Make something."
His voice was flat. An order to staff.
I stood in the living room. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows. Cast long shadows across the white floor. My stomach was cramping with hunger. I'd eaten nothing since a slice of toast at breakfast. It was past one o'clock now.
I walked to the kitchen. My footsteps were quiet on the polished floor. I opened the massive Viking refrigerator. The interior light was bright. Almost blinding.
Rows of organic vegetables. Angus beef wrapped in butcher paper. Lobster tails on ice. Black truffles in a glass jar. Foie gras. Asparagus. Everything expensive. Everything perfect.
My hands moved automatically. Reached for the truffle. The foie gras. The asparagus.
These were the things he liked. Rich food. French preparation. I'd learned to make them three years ago. Studied French cooking until my fingers blistered from knife work. Because I thought if I could feed him what he loved, maybe he would love me back.
The thought made my stomach twist.
I stopped. My hand was on the foie gras package. Cold and smooth under my fingers.
I pulled my hand back.
Set the foie gras down on the counter.
Stared at it.
"Why am I doing this again? Why am I still trying to please him?"
The butter was already melting in the pan. I turned off the flame. Picked up the half-prepared foie gras and threw it into the trash.
The sound was satisfying. Final.
I opened the fridge again. This time I looked for what I wanted. What I actually wanted to eat. Kimchi in a glass jar. Tofu in a plastic container. Green peppers. Chicken. White rice in the rice cooker on the counter.
Julian hated spicy food. He'd told me once that kimchi smelled aggressive. That tofu had the texture of wet sponge. That green peppers made his throat itch.
I didn't care.
I started cooking. Pulled out a pot. Added water. Turned on the heat. The kitchen filled with the sharp, vinegary scent of fermented cabbage. Red chili flakes floated in bubbling broth. I chopped the tofu into cubes. Sliced the peppers. Moved through the familiar motions.
I hummed quietly. No particular tune. Just sound. Just the feeling of doing something for myself.
For the first time in years, I was cooking for my own taste.
I set the dishes on the table. Red soup in a white bowl. Green peppers glistening with oil. White rice. The colors were bright. Alive.
Julian looked up from his laptop. His eyes moved from the food to my face. His expression went completely flat.
He stared at the floating red pepper flakes in the soup. At the glistening peppers. At the chopsticks I'd placed beside his bowl instead of a fork and knife.
"What is this?"
His voice was very controlled. Very quiet.