CHAPTER 6 Cracks in the Facade
POV: Julian
I was three minutes away from losing a forty-million-dollar acquisition, and for the life of me, I couldn’t find the one file that actually mattered.
"Julian, Vance Enterprises is on line two," my assistant’s voice crackled through the intercom, tight with stress. "They’re asking if you’ve reviewed the personal terms for their board chairman.
They said you promised to address his family’s historical trust concerns.
" I shoved my hand through my hair, tearing through the leather folder on my desk.
"I’m looking at the file right now, Sarah.
Where are the context briefs?" "The... what? "
"The briefs!" I snapped, the irritation bubbling straight to the surface. "The blue index cards. The ones that break down the chairman’s personal eccentricities, his daughter’s allergies, the exact brand of Scotch he drinks, and the one topic that sets him off." A heavy silence hung on the line.
"Mr. Thorne," Sarah said carefully, "your wife used to make those. They weren't part of the official corporate system. She... she always dropped them off on your desk the night before your major summits." My chest seized. A sudden, sharp constriction that made it hard to breathe.
Maya.
Maya.
For four years, I’d walked into high-stakes negotiations looking like an absolute mind-reader. I’d casually reference a competitor’s favorite vintage or avoid a political landmine with effortless grace. I’d thought I was just good at my job. I’d thought I was brilliant.
I wasn't. I was just backed by a woman who spent hours silently obsessing over every detail of my life so I would never look foolish. And now, three weeks after she walked out of my house without making a sound, the bulletproof armor I’d worn for years had a massive, gaping hole in it. I lost the Vance deal by noon.
When I finally pulled my car into the driveway at eight that evening, my head was pounding with a vicious, relentless throb. I needed quiet. I needed a glass of bourbon, a dark room, and five minutes to figure out why the hell my life felt like a house of cards catching a sudden draft.
Instead, I opened my front door and was hit with a wall of loud, screeching laughter, the clinking of crystal, and the unmistakable scent of heavy perfume. I froze in the foyer.
The main dining room was packed. Eight of our usual social circle—people who usually only came over when Maya spent three days organizing catering—were currently sprawled across my silk-upholstered chairs.
And sitting at the head of my table, swirling a glass of my fifty-year-old single malt, was Clara.
"Julian!" Clara gasped, her dark eyes flashing with that theatrical, dazzling smile that used to make my heart race.
Now, it just made my jaw clench. She stood up, her crimson dress clinging to her as she floated toward me, completely unbothered by the fact that she hadn't been invited.
"You look exhausted, darling! Perfect timing.
I decided the place felt way too dreary, so I gathered the group for an impromptu dinner. "
"Clara," I said, my voice dangerously low. "What is this?"
"A party!" Richard, one of my board members, chuckled from the table, looking comfortably drunk. "Gotta hand it to Clara, Thorne. The house actually has some life in it tonight. It used to feel like a pristine museum in here."
"Oh, please," Clara scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she leaned into my space, resting a manicured hand on my chest. "Let’s call a spade a spade, Richard.
Maya didn't run a home; she ran a nursery for a grown man.
She was practically a glorified, highly paid housekeeper.
" A ripple of cruel, drunken laughter echoed through the room.
"I mean, seriously," Clara continued, her tone dripping with amused condescension.
"The girl spent her entire existence hovering in the background, ironing his shirts, arranging his flowers, and waiting for a crumb of attention.
It was honestly embarrassing to watch. Who lives like that in this day and age?
She had zero pride. No wonder she finally snapped and ran off—she probably realized she was utterly replaceable. "
Replaceable.
The word sliced through the alcohol-fogged air like a straight razor. Something inside me snapped. It wasn't a slow build; it was a white-hot explosion that surged from my chest straight to my throat.
Four years of Maya quietly holding up my world. Four years of her waking up early to handle my chaos. Four years of her enduring my coldness, my distraction, my absolute fixation on a ghost—on Clara—while she built a fortress around me and asked for nothing in return.
She wasn't weak. She was the strongest damn thing in my life, and I’d been too arrogant to see it.
"Get out," I said. The laughter instantly died.
Clara blinked, her smile faltering. "Julian, darling, it was just a joke—" "Get the hell out of my house," I roared, the authority in my voice slamming through the room like a thunderclap.
Every single person at that table stood up, their faces pale, the drunk smiles instantly vanishing. "All of you. Right now."
"Julian, you're making a scene—" Clara started, reaching for my arm. I ripped my arm back, staring at her with a raw, vicious disgust that made her step back as if she'd been struck.
"Don't touch me," I breathed, my voice shaking with a rage I couldn't control. "And don't you ever utter her name in this house again." Within five minutes, the house was empty. The silence came rushing back, heavy, suffocating, and terrifyingly vast.
I stood alone in the middle of the dining room, looking at the dirty glasses, the chaotic mess, and the empty chair where Maya used to sit, watching me with those quiet, steady eyes. She wasn't weak. She was gone. And for the first time in my life, I was utterly terrified.