Chapter 44
Julian
The crystal paperweight on my desk didn’t survive my mood. It left my hand and exploded against the far wall, a thousand glittering shards raining down onto the Persian rug I’d once imported from Tehran.
“Incompetent,” I hissed, my chest heaving as I stared at the closed door my Head of Logistics had just escaped through—nearly in tears. “I am surrounded by people who couldn’t find their own shadows in a lit room.”
I paced the length of the office, jaw tight, fists clenching and unclenching. The panoramic skyline annoyed me.
A year. A year since I’d stood in the rain and watched Elara drive away in my car. A year of time.
My office door opened. Without knocking or hesitation, my mother swept in like she owned the air—Vivienne Hale, immaculate in ivory silk. She didn’t spare a glance for the shattered glass, just walked straight to the decanter, poured two fingers of scotch, and set it neatly on the edge of my desk.
“The HR director is considering a group therapy session for the executive board, Julian,” she said dryly. “They claim you’ve moved past ‘demanding’ and into ‘psychologically traumatizing.’”
“They’re slow,” I snapped, halting my pacing to glare at her. “Lazy. They want to walk while I run.”
“No,” she corrected calmly, settling into the leather wingback. “They’re operating at a human pace. You’re operating at the pace of a man trying to outrun his own heart. You’re being a mean boss because you’re miserable.”
My jaw tightened hard enough to tick. “I’m not miserable. I’m focused.”
“You’re a brat,” she replied smoothly. “I spoke to Elara this morning.”
The room lost oxygen. I froze, my hand hovering inches above the scotch.
“Why?” I rasped. “Whose side are you on, Mother?”
She arched a perfectly groomed brow. “Yours. That’s why I call her three times a week. To remind her exactly who is waiting for her. To remind her that while she’s out ‘breathing,’ there’s a man who loves her slowly turning into a gargoyle because he misses her.”
I turned toward the window, staring out at the low gray clouds pressing against the glass. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“She’ll eventually come back, Julian.”
“I said I don’t want to hear it,” I repeated, my voice dropping an octave.
Silence stretched—thick and heavy. Then quietly, against my will, I asked, “What is she doing right now?”
“Oh, now you want to know?” My mother stood, smoothing her skirt. She paused at the door and looked back at me with a soft, infuriating pity. “She’s healing at her friend’s, helping a charitable organization. She turned down a man.”
My heart gave a traitorous, painful thud.
“She’s happy, Julian,” she added gently. “She sounds… light. Like someone who finally put down a bag she’s been carrying for twenty years.”
I didn’t turn around. “Is that all?”
“She doesn’t usually ask about you, but she slipped up and asked if you were still drinking that ridiculous green kale smoothie every morning.” My mother rolled her eyes. “I told her you were living on caffeine and spite. She laughed. It was a very pretty sound.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
I stood alone for a few moments, just staring at nothing.
Then I sank into my chair. My phone was already in my hand, thumb hovering over her name.
I wanted to know if she was feeling like I was feeling—if, in the middle of her breathing, she ever felt like she was running out of air because I wasn’t there.
I put the phone down. I closed my eyes and could almost smell her—vanilla and the faint trace of lemon-blueberry.
“Find yourself, Elara,” I whispered to the empty room, my voice finally cracking. “But hurry the fuck up. I’m running out of things to break.”