Chapter 14
Julian
The look on her face when I told her it was her birthday—that’s what I’ll remember. Not the rage still simmering in my gut from that fucking circus at her office. Not her arrogant waste-of-space husband, or the clueless mistress playing dress-up.
She looked pleased with me. I lived for those moments.
I could tell she’d forgotten. She hadn't celebrated in years, but I’d always managed to slip her little gifts.
The trick was the timing; I never gave them on the actual day.
I had learned to navigate the landscape that was Elara Vance.
She was prickly, but she was sweet. She’d stayed with me for a week when I had COVID, nursing me like it was her job.
I’d managed to give her a spa package she thought I’d "won," the initial necklace she wore every day, and a pair of Gianvito Rossi heels I told her were knockoffs.
It was her loyalty that cracked my fucking chest open; she had the Ashworth vault and a trust fund, yet she got a genuine, childlike glee from finding a "good dupe. "
Those heels were proof. Proof that she wanted me—Julian, the man, not the heir. For a man raised on transactions, her sentiment was a currency I couldn’t spend, but I was desperate to earn more of it.
The car was too quiet. She was staring out the window, likely thinking about the disaster of the shoot.
I felt the urge to turn the car around and break Alastair Ashworth’s jaw.
The way he spoke to her was a physical ache in my hands.
But I had a more desperate need to wipe that whole day from her mind.
To give her something that was just ours.
The roof was ready. I’d checked it three times. The table, the lights, the food. And the cake.
That fucking troublesome cake. She’d told me she hated store-bought ones because her mother used to bake.
So, I baked one. Isn’t that what women want?
Sincerity? If she’d wanted a professional one, I would have razed a city for her.
I would have bought the goddamn bakery and the wheat field it came from.
The cake sat in the center of the table.
It was lopsided. The frosting was a messy, off-white swirl.
One slice was already missing because I’d had to taste it at 2:00 AM, panic-sweating through my shirt, convinced I’d gotten the sugar wrong.
Quinn had stood there as I shoved a piece in his face, demanding to know if it actually tasted like cake.
The car slowed into the private garage. Quinn stepped out and opened her door. “Happy birthday, Ms. Vance,” he said warmly.
She blinked as if pulled from a dream. “Thank you, Quinn.” Her smile was small and tired. It wasn't enough.
I got out and rounded the car before she could take two steps. “Wait.”
She paused, her brows drawing together. I pulled the silk blindfold from my pocket.
“No,” she said immediately. “Julian, absolutely not. I know what the apartment looks like.”
“We’re not going to the apartment.” I moved closer. “It’s for where we’re going.”
She crossed her arms. “Julian, I’m in heels. If you think I’m walking around blind—”
“You are.”
I stepped closer until she had to tilt her chin up. “Let me do this,” I said. “For you.”
She hesitated, then snatched the blindfold. “Fine. But if I break an ankle, I’m suing you.”
I smirked. “I’ll carry you before I let you fall.”
The moment I tied the silk, her breath caught—a tiny, involuntary hitch I felt down my spine. She hated vulnerability. I loved her in it. I put my hands on her waist. “Walk,” I murmured, guiding her toward the elevator.
Quinn stayed behind. I pressed the button for the top floor and kept her tucked against me. She smelled of vanilla and something floral.
“Julian,” she warned as we hit the metal stairs to the roof. “These are stairs.”
“I expect you to trust me,” I said.
She went quiet. Not because she agreed—Elara never made anything easy—but because the word trust hit her like it always did.
She couldn't deny that she did. I helped her up each step, my palms firm on her waist. She stumbled once, and my hand snapped to her stomach, catching her before gravity could even consider her.
“See?” I whispered against her ear. “I’ve got you.”
At the final step, I stopped her. “Stay still.”
A breeze swept over us, carrying the smell of grilled seafood. I untied the silk slowly, stepping aside to see her reaction.
The rooftop was transformed. Lanterns across the pergola. A table set with her favorite dishes. Wine chilling. And the cake, lit with a single gold candle, with the city stretching out behind us.
Her lips parted. “Happy birthday,” I said quietly.
Her eyes glistened. “Julian… this is beautiful.” She walked over to the cake. “You made this?”
“I did.”
“It’s so ugly. And why is there a piece missing?” I could hear the tears in her voice.
“I had to make sure it wasn't poison.”
Dinner was a blur. My stomach was in knots. When the plates were cleared, I couldn't stand the tension.
“You said once… your mother, Saby Vance, used to sing. That she loved jazz.”
Elara went very still.
“I had someone do me a favor. Everyone who sings that well leaves a trace. A recording, a demo.” I reached for the portable speaker and pressed play.
The crackle of old tape filled the air, then a soft piano intro. And then a voice—warm, rich, honey over gravel—began to sing.
Elara made a small, broken whimper. She didn't move; she just stared into the distance as if seeing a ghost. Then a single tear tracked down her cheek. Then another.
“How?” she whispered. “Why are you so good to me?”
“I told you,” I said, my voice thick. “I pay attention. The studio she used in college still had the master reels from 1996. I bought them. This is the only copy.”
She looked at me, her face wrecked and open. “Why?”
“Because I love you,” I said. “And you deserve this. You deserve to be cherished, Elara. Every single day.”
The silence lasted too long. Then she said it.
“I love you, too.”
Three words. Four syllables. The world stopped. For three years, I’d said those words into a void. Into her hair while she slept, into her skin when she came. I’d never heard them back.
My brain short-circuited. I wanted to cry, but I didn't. I moved before I could think, threading my fingers into her hair and pulling her toward me.
“Don’t,” I growled, a ragged plea. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it. Don’t you fucking dare. I can handle your silence. I can’t handle you lying about this.”
Her eyes, swimming with tears, held no deceit. “I mean it,” she whispered. “I do.”
The cord of tension inside me snapped. I didn’t kiss her. I just rested my forehead against hers, our breaths syncing, keeping this fragile, impossible truth contained between us.
“Okay,” I breathed. “Okay.”