Chapter 18
Julian
Zurich was cold. The hotel we were staying in overlooked the silver ribbon of the Limmat River and the spires of the old town—a perfect metaphor of old-world money and modern-world vice.
Being able to expand there would be perfect.
The Europeans weren’t like us Americans; they didn't need fantasy.
They wanted the future of intimacy, clinically engineered.
They wanted dildos that didn’t just vibrate—they anticipated. They wanted pressure-responsive silicone and sensors that mapped arousal. They didn’t care about lace or packaging; they cared about performance and they’d pay a lot for it. It was a market my mother was determined to break into.
We’d been negotiating all day. I’d told my mother to rest while I handled the final meeting with LuxePartout, a distribution conglomerate...
We’d been negotiating all day. I’d told my mother to rest while I handled the final meeting with LuxePartout, a distribution conglomerate. Their representative was a surprise.
“Julian Hale. A pleasure.” Seraphine Moreau extended a hand, her smile too large. We’d known each other at Le Rosey, the Swiss boarding school for the globally over-privileged. She was tall, blonde, and typical in my circle.
“Seraphine. I didn’t realize you were with Luxe.”
“Recently appointed Head of Special Acquisitions,” she said. “Father thought it was time I took a more… hands-on role.”
Dinner at the hotel’s Michelin-starred restaurant followed. Seraphine wanted to flirt more than do business. I kept redirecting her. “My focus is on business,” I said when she offered me a house in Malmo to visit.
“Ah, yes,” she purred. “I heard a rumor. A mysterious American heiress. It must be serious to keep the legendary Julian Hale on such a short leash.”
“It’s not a leash. It’s a choice.” I set my glass down with a definitive click. “The exclusivity clause is non-negotiable.”
I excused myself to the restroom to splash cold water on my face. The image of Elara—likely in my shirt, reading on the sofa—calmed me. I texted her: Thinking of you. Back tomorrow. I didn’t expect a reply; it was the middle of the night for her.
Returning to the table, I found my wine glass refilled. I took a long swallow, hoping to get through the final hour. Fifteen minutes later, a wrongness began to creep in.
A disconnect between my thoughts and the room. A flush through my skin. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs.
What the hell?
“Julian? You look pale,” Seraphine’s voice was distant and syrupy.
I tried to stand, but the floor tilted. This wasn't fatigue. This was chemical. The wine. I fumbled for my phone. I couldn't call Quinn in New Yor, he was on vacation and too far away. I opened my messages and texted my mother: At the Dolder. Restaurant. Something’s wrong. Help.
I hit send before my fingers betrayed me.
“Let me help you to your room,” Seraphine’s voice was close, her hand on my arm. Her touch felt repulsive, yet, horrifyingly, the drug was causing a physical stimulation I couldn't control. She guided me out of the dining room, her body pressed supportively—possessively—against mine.
She got the key from my pocket and the door swung open. Inside, the world narrowed.
“You work too hard, Julian,” she said, her hands going to my buttons. “Let someone take care of you.”
Revulsion warred with the fire inside me. I caught her wrists, my grip weaker than it should have been. “You drugged me. Get. Off.”
“Or what?” she whispered. “Who would believe you? It’s a better story your way, I promise.”
The horror of the set-up crystallized. Blackmail. Compromising photos. A power reversal attempt of the most vile kind. As her hand snaked down, the door burst open.
Vivienne Hale was six feet of contained fury in a charcoal Valentino pantsuit. Her pitch-black hair was swept into a severe knot. Her emerald eyes scanned the scene in a nanosecond.
The temperature in the room dropped to absolute zero.
“Get your fucking hands off my son,” she said. Her voice was a scalpel.
Seraphine jumped back, her face draining of color. “Madame Hale! I—he wasn’t feeling well—”
“I know exactly what you were doing,” Vivienne cut her off. “You put something in his drink. Thinking what? That you could film it and have leverage over the Hale family?”
Seraphine stammered, the sophisticated heiress replaced by a caught child. “My father will hear about this!”
“Your father,” Vivienne said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “will hear about this from me. You resign tonight. You disappear from this industry. Or I call the Swiss federal police and every journalist on my speed dial. I will unravel the tapestry of your entire family’s reputation until there’s nothing left but loose threads. Do you understand me?”
Seraphine fled the room without another word.
Only then did my mother turn to me. Her mask of competence fractured for a single second, revealing primal rage and fear.
“Mother… she…”
“I know. Can you walk?”
She guided me into the marble bathroom and turned on the shower to a cold stream. “Clothes off. Now. You need to ride this out. I’m not leaving.”
Under the brutal, icy spray, I braced my hands against the wall, chattering and shuddering. The cold was agony, cutting through the drug-induced fire.
“Elara. I want Elara,” I whined through chattering teeth.
Vivienne sat on the closed toilet lid, a queen holding vigil. “She must be the one you’re dismantling the Ashworths for. The one whose mother’s recording you had me track down. I’ve seen her. Beautiful girl.”
She knew everything.
“But is she worth it?” my mother asked.
Under the freezing water, the answer was the only thing that felt true. “Yes.”
A long pause. “Good. Marry her soon. Before someone else tries to take what’s yours in a less civilized way. She’s wanted.”
She passed a glass of water through the shower door. “Drink. I’m stepping out to call your father.”