Gianna sat in her office with the security footage paused on her monitor, Julian’s hand still frozen mid-strike, Marcus’s head still tilted back from the impact. She’d watched it three times already. Not for the confrontation itself, though that had been satisfying enough in its own right—Marcus had needed humbling for longer than she cared to admit, and watching someone finally deliver it had been almost cathartic. What kept drawing her back was Julian himself. The way he’d stood perfectly still while an entire floor gathered to watch him, the way his voice had never once risen even as he dismantled two men’s careers in front of an audience, the absolute certainty in his posture when he’d said this company belongs to me like it was simply a fact of the world rather than a claim that needed defending. She replayed that moment a fourth time, studying the set of his shoulders, the stillness in his hands, the way authority seemed to settle on him naturally rather than something he had

Julian sat in the VIP lounge for nearly twenty minutes before he finally pulled out his phone and typed the message.Something’s come up. I have to leave early. I’ll see you tomorrow.It wasn’t entirely a lie. Something had come up—just not the kind he could explain in a text message, not the kind that had anything to do with meetings or emergencies. What had come up was the sudden, suffocating clarity that Preston’s words had forced into the open, the realization that whatever he’d been carefully not naming between himself and Gianna had already grown into something too large to keep contained.He sent the message and left before she could respond.The drive back to the villa passed in a blur he barely registered. By the time he reached the front door, his decision had already hardened into something he refused to second-guess.He needed to leave.Not eventually. Not once things settled. Now, before this went any further, before his mother’s plans collided with whatever he was feelin

The man crossed the distance between them before Colette had even finished smoothing her expression into something appropriately composed.“Colette.” He said her name like it belonged to him already, one hand settling at the small of her back the moment he reached her, his eyes flicking toward Julian with a kind of appraising curiosity rather than any real concern. “How did it go?”“Perfectly,” Colette said, leaning into the touch. “Exactly the way we planned it.”Julian took in the man properly now—early forties, expensive watch, the particular polish of someone who’d never once had to fight for anything he wanted. Marcus Delacroix. Julian recognized the name from industry circles, a venture capitalist who’d built half his portfolio acquiring companies from founders desperate enough to accept predatory terms.“You must be the ex-husband,” Marcus said, extending a hand Julian didn’t take. “Marcus Delacroix. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”“I doubt that,” Julian said.Marcus’s smile

Julian moved his things back to the villa the next morning before work, the whole process taking less than an hour this time, none of the heaviness that had accompanied packing three nights earlier. Gianna helped him unload the second suitcase without either of them mentioning how strange it felt to be doing the exact reverse of what they’d done days before, both of them choosing, wordlessly, not to dwell on it.He made it exactly four hours into his workday before his mother called again.This time he answered without hesitation, some new steadiness in him that hadn’t existed two days earlier.“Mother.”“I received a curious phone call this morning,” Antonia said, skipping past any pleasantry. “From Eleanor Whitfield’s father. He informed me that his daughter intends to fly in personally to discuss the arrangement, given how long it’s been delayed. She’ll arrive Friday.”Julian’s jaw tightened. “I told you I’d call you Friday. You didn’t mention scheduling a visit before then.”“I di

Julian arrived at the villa to find the kitchen filled with the smell of something simmering, Gianna standing at the stove in an apron that had clearly seen better days, her hair pulled back haphazardly, utterly unlike the composed executive who ran board meetings by day.“You’re staring,” she said without turning around.“I’m allowed to stare. This is a new development.” Julian set his jacket over the back of a chair and crossed the kitchen, wrapping his arms around her from behind, resting his chin against her shoulder. “I didn’t know you could cook.”“I can’t, really. This is one dish I learned badly from my grandmother and have been making ever since out of stubbornness.” She stirred the pot with more concentration than it probably required. “Tell me about Eleanor.”Julian pulled back enough to lean against the counter beside her, and told her everything—the arrangement, the unexpected relief of discovering Eleanor wanted out just as badly, the proposal he needed to draft by Monda