Chapter 26 Sunrise
The morning broke cold and aggressively bright in the penthouse, forcing the light through the narrow gap in the blackout blinds.
I woke first, stiff, exhausted, and instantly aware of the weight surrounding me. Rhys. We were still tangled together: his arm a warm, heavy band across my waist, the solid plane of his bare chest against my back, our legs intertwined beneath the duvet. The scent of him—clean, male, and faintly of adrenaline—was all I could smell.
My heart began to hammer, not from fear, but from the sudden, catastrophic realization of what had occurred. We had not merely shared the same space; we had spent the entire night locked in a posture of intense, protective proximity. This felt familiar, a cold comfort carried over from a terrible past, yet terrifyingly real in the present.
I carefully unwrapped his arm, the movement instantly failing to be subtle. Rhys didn't wake, but his hand clenched weakly against the sheets where I had been. I slid out of the bed, feeling the cool air of the suite on my skin. I hurried into the bathroom, desperate to put a door and a routine between myself and that overwhelming, possessive warmth.
When I emerged, dressed in my professional armor, the bed was empty. Rhys’s side of the duvet was tossed back, his pillow dented. A small, unexpected pang of coldness hit me when I realized he was gone. He hadn't stayed. He had retreated to his usual distance the second I was no longer actively screaming.
I found him in the kitchen, already in a pristine Apex shirt. The raw humanity of the night had been erased, replaced by the lethal polish of the CEO.
He placed a coffee mug on the counter, not looking at me.
"Julian has the schedule," Rhys stated, his voice tight, the control audible in the careful cadence of his words. "Qualifying prep starts at 09:00. We will address the Marco Rossi incident this afternoon in a legal capacity. It will not be discussed until then."
The Anchor was gone. Only the Owner remained, re-establishing the rules.
"We need to discuss what happened," I said.
He finally looked up, his eyes steel. "There is nothing to discuss, Ellie. Your safety was temporarily compromised. It was a lapse in security, nothing more." He paused. "You will remain within eyesight of either me or Julian at all times."
"Was it duty, Rhys?" I pressed. "Or did you just require a better report on the quality of the protection you purchased?"
Rhys leaned his weight against the counter, "It was the appropriate response to a catastrophic failure of security protocols within my domain," he corrected, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Your personal well-being is an actuarial concern I swore to protect. It is finished. Don't mistake my obligation for anything else."
His clinical detachment was a deliberate, brutal repudiation of the necessity we had shared. It was his way of shoving the past back down the same hole he’d crawled out of.
The nightmares came often when I was sixteen, and it was always Rhys who heard the sound I made—a choked sob, never a scream—and knew instantly what to do. He'd be as silent as a ghost, sliding into the narrow bed next to mine.
"It's over, El," he'd whisper. His arm was always heavy, solid, and immovable across my chest, anchoring me to the present. I remember clinging to him, letting the heat of him burn off the chill of the fear. He would stay until dawn, falling into a light, exhausted sleep, holding me tighter than anyone ever dared. Then, with the first chirping of the Boston birds, he would slip out just before Owen came knocking.
The rules were always the same, unspoken but absolute: Duty ends at sunrise.
His eyes, cold and steel gray, locked onto mine. He had re-erected the wall with surgical precision. It was his pattern, established a decade ago, yet it felt like a fresh, brutal abandonment now that the stakes—and the distance—were global.
A chime interrupted us. Rhys glanced at his private phone, his jaw tightening slightly. "It's Owen," he stated, his voice flat. He put the phone down, clearly intending to ignore it.
"Answer it," I commanded. "I haven't spoken to my brothers since I left."
Rhys hesitated, the conflict playing out briefly in the sudden clench of his hands against the marble. He picked it up and hit the speaker button.
"Vance," Rhys answered, the usual cold CEO tone back in place.
"Don't Vance me, Rhys, what the hell is going on over there?" Owen's voice crackled from the speaker, raw and panicked. "I just got a weird text chain about some Italian creep cornering Ellie. Tell me I don't need to fly to Monaco and kick someone's teeth in. Is she actually okay? Let me hear her."
Rhys looked at me, a silent, challenging transference of control.
I took a shaky breath, stepping directly toward the phone. "I'm fine, Owen," I said clearly, injecting confidence into my voice. "It was barely anything, and it's already handled. I'm already reviewing data for qualifying. Don't worry about it."
"Barely anything?" Owen scoffed. "If it was minor, Rhys wouldn't sound like he's about to start a blood feud. Just give me specifics, El."
"Rhys handled it," I insisted, avoiding specifics. "And now I need to work. Don't let Mom worry. I'll call you after qualifying, okay?" I gave Rhys a pointed look, demanding he respect the lie.
"We're not done, Ellie," Owen warned, the worry in his voice intensifying. "But fine. Rhys, you text me everything. And you keep her visible."
Rhys simply ended the call without confirming, placing the phone face down. The tension in the kitchen was now a thick, vibrating thing.
"He's satisfied, for now," Rhys said, his eyes finally meeting mine, the possessiveness back in full force. "But that changes nothing. Go to Julian."
"Fine," I clipped out. "Actuarial concern noted. I'll be in the data bunker with Kian Hayes."
The name hit him like a physical blow. Rhys's composure flickered, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. He didn't move, but the atmosphere in the kitchen turned instantly volatile.
"Kian Hayes has a driver briefing," Rhys countered, his voice low. "Julian will assign you a task."
"Kian specifically requested my analysis on the T compound data from yesterday’s session before his briefing," I replied, holding his gaze. It was a lie, but it was to test the boundary. "He requires a collaborator, not a subordinate. I will be collaborating."
Rhys looked at me then, his eyes burning with an emotion that was no longer cool control, but raw, terrifying fury.
"Go," he finally said, the word a forced exhale. "But if I find your focus has shifted from Apex's unassailable margin to anything irrelevant, I will terminate that collaboration immediately and without discussion. Understand?"
I picked up my laptop and walked out. I intended to use his window to assert my independence, even if it risked the full weight of his possessive rage.