Chapter 2 - The Seven-Thirty Curb
The shower at my townhouse didn't wash away the shame; it simply scrubbed the dirt from my skin until I was raw, pink, and cold.
By four in the morning, Mara was sitting on the edge of my unmade bed, clutching a mug of black coffee while my phone buzzed on the nightstand like an angry, dying insect. Leo had called fourteen times. My mother had texted six times, each message escalating from maternal reprimand to frantic commands to delete any photos guests might have taken of the pavilion before "the family reputation took a permanent hit."
Not a single message asked if I was all right. Not one asked why I had bled onto the antique linen.
"You're not really going to do it," Mara whispered, watching me pull a tailored charcoal suit from the back of my wardrobe. It was wool-crepe, sharp-shouldered, and severely elegant—the suit I had bought for my first board presentation after my grandmother died, the one Leo had told me made me look "too combative."
"I am," I said, fastening the mother-of-pearl buttons. My hands weren't shaking anymore. The tremor had settled deep into my stomach, hardening into cold slate. "If I go into hiding, Chloe wins the narrative. She’ll spin it into a tragic, passionate mistake. Leo will play the contrite boy who stumbled, and by Thanksgiving, they’ll be seated side by side at Mother’s table while I’m expected to eat takeout in the kitchen."
"June, it's Julian Mercer," Mara said, leaning forward, her eyes wide with real fear. "He didn't just inherit the family maritime shipping and infrastructure assets; he took them by force when his brother died. Leo is terrified of him for a reason. Julian doesn't have a heart. He has a ledger."
"Good," I replied, sliding the heavy silver fountain pen into my inner jacket pocket. "A ledger can be balanced. A heart just gets trampled under a tent."
At seven-twenty-eight, I stood on the damp sidewalk outside my building. The coastal fog clung to the eucalyptus trees, smelling of salt and wet bark.
At seven-thirty on the second, a matte-black Mercedes-Maybach glided around the corner and purred to a halt against the curb. The rear door clicked and swung open.
Julian Mercer sat inside, backlit by the soft amber illumination of the interior. He wore a bespoke navy three-piece suit, crisp white collar, and no tie. He was reading a tablet, his wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
He didn't look up immediately. He simply shifted over to make room on the immaculate leather seat.
"Get in, June," he said softly. "The clerk doesn't like to be kept waiting."
I stepped into the car, pulling the heavy door shut behind me with a solid, echoing thud. The city outside ceased to exist. Inside, it smelled of cedar, vintage paper, and Julian’s faint, smoky cologne.
He set the tablet face down on his lap, turned his gray, razor-sharp gaze upon me, and took in my charcoal suit, my swept-back hair, and the faint bruise still purpling along my jaw.
"You wore the suit," he remarked, the barest ghost of an amused smirk touching the corner of his lips.
"You told me to wear something that couldn't be flipped," I countered evenly.
May you like
Julian reached out, his long, warm fingers lightly brushing the edge of my collar, straightening it with an intimacy that sent a jolt straight down my spine. "Perfect. Let’s go make you my wife."
***
