The bedroom door clicked shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent room.
Julian didn't turn on the lights. The only glow came from the sunbleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, silver shadows across the silk sheets of the massive bed.
"Who is she?" Elara's voice was barely a whisper. She stood by the door, her hands clenched at her sides.
Julian was already unbuttoning his shirt. He moved with a slow, predatory grace, his eyes never leaving hers. "Who is who, Elara?"
"Isabella. The name in the note." Elara stepped forward into the sliver of sunlight.S—he told you that he hopes he doesn't have to take care of me like he did to her. Why would he say that to you? Is she your ex? Is she the reason I'm here? Am I just a stand-in for a dead woman?"
Julian stopped, his shirt hanging open to reveal the hard, scarred planes of his chest. He walked toward her, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. He didn't stop until he was inches away, his heat radiating off him in waves.
"Isabella is none of your concern," he growled, his voice dropping to that vibration that made her bones ache.
"It is my concern if I'm being hunted because of her!" Elara shot back, her spirit flaring up despite her fear. "He called me a 'toy.' He said he hoped I lasted longer than the last one. What happened to her, Julian? Did you lock her in a cage, too?"
Julian's hand flashed out, his fingers hooking under her chin and forcing her head back. His eyes were no longer cold; they were burning with an ancient, dark rage.
Don't push me, Elara. You signed the contract. You stopped asking questions the moment the ink dried."
He let go, the heat of his touch lingering on her skin like a brand. Julian stood by the window, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He watched her like a wolf, but there was a hunger in his gaze that Elara felt in the pit of her stomach.
"Strip," he commanded.
The word was a low vibration. Elara's heart hammered. She felt the weight of his power filling the room, pulling at her.
"Julian, please—" she started, her voice trembling. She wanted him to stop, yet she found herself standing up, her fingers reaching for the zipper of the emerald dress.
"I didn't ask for a conversation, Elara." He set his glass down with a deliberate clack and walked toward her.
He reached out, his hand tangling in her hair. It wasn't a gentle caress, but as he tilted her head back to bare her throat, Elara didn't pull away. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her. His other hand moved to the bodice of her dress, his thumb grazing her nipple through the silk. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through her that she hated herself for craving.
"You're mine now," he growled against her ear. "And you want this as much as I do. Don't lie to me, kitten."
He pressed her back onto the mattress. The silk rode up her thighs, and for a moment, Elara felt the urge to hide, to curl away—but when he moved over her, the sheer heat of him made her legs part instinctively. She was a 'Fixer'; she was used to being in control. But Julian Thorne was the only person who could make her feel this terrifying, exhilarating loss of it.
He took her with a relentless, possessive intensity. It wasn't a gentle joining; it was a claim. Every thrust was a demand for her surrender, and despite her anger, Elara found herself arching into him, her fingers clawing at his shoulders. She sobbed his name into the pillows, a sound torn between frustration and a deep, buried need.
When he was finished, he stood up, his breathing barely labored. He looked down at her—flushed, trembling, and completely undone.
"Don't move," he warned. "I'm going to handle the security breach. If I come back and find you've left this bed, the punishment will be far more... thorough."
He tossed his encrypted phone onto the nightstand and disappeared into the adjoining dressing room to change.
Elara lay there, her skin flushing, her mind racing. The phone. She waited until she heard the shower start in the dressing room. Moving like a shadow, she scrambled to the edge of the bed and grabbed the device. It was a Thorne-S6—the most secure phone in the world. To anyone else, it was a brick. But Elara was the Ghost Architect.
Her fingers flew across the screen, She didn't need a password; she needed a back door. She tapped into the kernel, her heart stopping as a folder appeared: ISABELLA.
She tapped it, but before the image could load, the shower stopped.
The heavy thud of the bathroom door swinging open echoed through the room. Adrenaline, cold and sharp, spiked through her. With the precision of a Ghost Architect, she slid the phone under the heavy silk duvet just as Julian stepped into the room.
He stood there, a towel slung low on his hips, water beads glistening on the hard, scarred planes of his chest. His eyes scanned the room, landing on Elara, who was sitting up, her breath hitching.
"I told you not to move," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He didn't see the phone, but he saw the guilt written in the tension of her shoulders. He crossed the room in two strides, looming over her like a dark god. "You look like you've been busy, kitten. Did you think I wouldn't smell the curiosity on you?"
He didn't hit her. Instead, he grabbed both of her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head against the headboard. The power in his grip was absolute. He leaned in, his nose brushing hers.
"You want to know my secrets?" he hissed. "You want to play games in the dark? Fine. Let's play a different one."
He ripped the duvet away, leaving her exposed. His eyes darkened as they raked over her body, still flushed from his earlier touch. "You're still wet for me," he observed with a cruel, knowing smirk. "Even when you're trying to betray me."
He dropped to his knees between her legs, his hands sliding up her inner thighs, forcing them wide. "Spread them. Wider," he commanded, his voice dropping to a gravelly rasp. "I want to see every inch of what belongs to me. I'm going to eat you until you forget your own name, let alone whatever questions you have."
Elara let out a strangled gasp as his mouth found her. It wasn't gentle; it was a feast. He used his tongue and teeth with a predatory hunger that made her back arch off the bed, her fingers clawing at the headboard. She hated how quickly her body betrayed her, how her hips began to move in a desperate rhythm against him.
"Please, Julian..." she whispered, her head tossing back.
"Please what?" He looked up, his face slick, his eyes burning into hers. "You want more? Then earn it. Get on your knees."
He stood, looming over her as he discarded the towel. Elara looked up at him, her pulse thrumming in her throat. The power dynamic was suffocating, yet she found herself moving, her hands trembling as they reached for him.
"Suck it," he growled, his hand tangling in her hair to guide her. "Take all of it. Show me you know who your master is."
The encounter was deeper, more primal than before. It was a battle of wills fought through touch and breath. By the time he pulled her back up and took her again, pinning her against the pillows, Elara was lost in a haze of sensation, her "Fixer" logic completely drowned out by the raw, dominant force of the man over her.
When it was over, Julian stood, his expression unreadable. He dressed in silence, the air still thick with the scent of their encounter. He walked toward the door, but just as Elara began to breathe a sigh of relief, he stopped.
He turned back, his eyes narrowing on the slight unevenness of the silk duvet. He reached down, sliding his hand exactly where she had hidden the device.
He pulled out the encrypted phone.
He didn't yell. He didn't even look angry. He simply held it up, a dark, victorious glint in his eyes.
"Nice try, Architect," he whispered. "But nothing stays hidden from me in this house."
He slid the phone into his pocket and walked out, the click of the lock sounding like a final sentence. Elara lay there in the ruins of the bed, shivering. She hadn't seen a single file. She was back to zero, and now, Julian knew exactly what she was capable of.
A sharp, rhythmic knock at the door made her flinch.
"The Master has ordered you to be ready by eight," Martha said as she stepped inside, hanging a garment bag on the mahogany wardrobe. "There is a dinner tonight. His father is here."
"His father?" Elara asked, her stomach doing a slow, nauseating flip. "I thought Julian ran everything."
"Julian runs the business," Martha whispered, her voice barely audible as she moved toward the vanity. "Silas Thorne runs the history. And Silas doesn't like loose ends. He's here to see if you're a liability that needs to be... removed."
The word hung in the air like a guillotine blade. Martha left without another word, the click of her heels fading down the hallway.
Elara opened the bag. The dress was a midnight-blue velvet, high-necked and elegant, but it felt like a funeral shroud against her skin. She applied her makeup with trembling fingers, painting a sharp, lethal red on her lips. If she was going into a den of vipers, she would at least look like she had teeth.
By the time the door unlocked at eight, Elara was standing by the window, watching the moonlight crawl across the grounds. Julian was waiting in the hallway. He looked devastating in a black tuxedo, his expression as unreadable as a tombstone. He didn't apologize for the phone or the marks he'd left on her skin; he simply held out his arm.
Elara placed her hand on his sleeve. His muscles were like granite under the fine wool.
"Don't speak unless I give you the signal," he said, his voice a low vibration as they walked toward the grand dining hall. "My father believes you are a common thief I've kept for my own amusement. Let him believe it. If you try to appeal to his mercy, you'll find he has none."
"Is that why you married me? To protect me from him?" she whispered.
Julian stopped in the center of the dim corridor. He turned to her, his hand coming up to cup her jaw. His thumb pressed against her lower lip, dragging slightly—a gesture that was both a caress and a silent warning.
"I married you because I decided you were mine," he growled. "My father's opinion is irrelevant, as long as you play your part."
He led her into the dining room, where the air felt ten degrees colder. At the head of the table sat an older man who looked like a decayed, skeletal version of Julian. Silas Thorne had eyes like flat, grey stones—devoid of the fire Elara saw in his son's.
"So," Silas rasped, not even looking up from his wine. "This is the little gutter rat you've brought into our house, Julian. A 'Fixer' from the slums. I heard she saw you handle the Moretti mess."
"She is my wife, Silas," Julian said, his voice dropping into a low, predatory growl. "And you will address her as such."
Silas finally looked up. His gaze crawled over Elara with a deep, aristocratic disgust. He didn't see a woman; he saw a stain on the Thorne pedigree.
"Marriage is for bloodlines, not for cleaning up witnesses," Silas said, flicking a dismissive hand toward her. "She's a nobody, Julian. A girl from an orphanage with no name and no history. You could have just cut her throat and saved us the paperwork."
A surge of cold fury washed over Elara, momentarily drowning her fear. "I have a name," she said, her voice cracking the oppressive silence.
Julian's grip on her waist tightened instantly, his fingers digging into her hip to signal her silence.
Silas laughed—a dry, hacking sound that reminded Elara of dead leaves. "A name given to you by a state-run charity, no doubt. You're a blank space, girl. A ghost." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing until they were like pinpricks of ice. "You look familiar, though. Something about your eyes... they remind me of someone I buried a long time ago. A family of losers who thought they could challenge the Thornes."
Elara's head began to throb. A flash of orange light flickered behind her eyes—a roar of flames, the smell of gasoline. She saw the glint of silver on a man's wrist.
"The dinner is over," Julian snapped, sensing the shift in her energy. He stood abruptly, pulling Elara up with him. "We're leaving."
"Running away so soon?" Silas chuckled. "I'm just curious, Julian. Why wear that watch? It's a relic from a dead man. Does it remind you of the night we finally took what was ours?"
Elara's eyes snapped to Julian's wrist. The silver watch. The same watch from her fractured memories.
"It reminds me of the price of failure," Julian said coldly.
Well then I should be taking my leave now; Silas said