Chapter 27 Elliot
ELLIOT
Iwake to the soft ping of my phone, reaching blindly across Julian’s massive bed. The sheets still hold his scent, though he left hours ago for an early meeting. Strange how quickly this penthouse has become a sanctuary—my temporary home since the confrontation with my mother three days ago.
The phone rings before I can check the notification. An unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Is this Elliot Chambers?” A man’s voice.
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Fire Chief Donovan. I’m calling about the Chambers Gallery on Fifth Avenue. There’s been a fire, Sir.”
My stomach drops. “What? How bad?”
“I’m afraid it’s significant. The building is currently engulfed, and we’re working to contain it before it spreads.”
I bolt upright, clutching the phone. “Was anyone hurt? My assistant sometimes comes in early.”
“No injuries reported. The building was empty when the fire started.” He pauses. “Mr. Chambers, I should mention that our initial assessment suggests arson. There appears to have been multiple ignition points.”
The word reverberates through me like a shockwave. Arson. Not an accident.
“I’ll be right there.”
I throw on yesterday’s clothes, not bothering with a shower. Julian’s driver isn’t available without notice, so I book an Uber while jamming my feet into shoes.
My phone pings with a text as I’m rushing toward the elevator.
Unknown Number: Looks like God will make you pay for your sins after all. You brought this on yourself.
My mother. I recognize her brand of cruelty. She did this.
The elevator doors close as I stare at the message, mind racing through the implications. My entire collection. Artists who trusted me with their work. Years of building my reputation—all potentially reduced to ash because I finally stopped lying about who I am.
My hands tremble as the elevator descends. Julian isn’t here to steady me this time. I’m facing this alone.
The Uber is barely pulling away from Julian’s building when my phone rings again. Julian’s name flashes across the screen.
“Elliot? Are you okay? I just heard about the gallery.”
“No.” The word comes out ragged. “I’m heading there now. The fire chief called—they think it’s arson.”
“Jesus.”
“It was my mother.” My voice breaks on the last word. “She texted me right after the fire chief called. Some bullshit about God making me pay for my sins.”
The silence on Julian’s end is deadly. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped an octave, cold and precise.
“Forward me the text.”
I do it without question while still on the phone with him.
“She won’t get away with this,” Julian says after a moment.
“I’ll have my team retrieve security footage from nearby buildings.
We’ll prove it was her. And when we do, I’m going to ruin her, Elliot.
Completely. Systematically. Her entire social world, her church standing, her reputation—all of it gone. ”
I should be horrified by the vengeance in his voice. Instead, a warmth spreads through my chest, pushing back against the despair threatening to overwhelm me. For so forty years, no one has ever fought for me. No one has ever been willing to burn down the world when I was wronged.
“Julian...” My voice catches.
“I’m leaving my meeting now. Tell me where to meet you.”
The simplicity of his declaration—dropping everything, no questions asked—makes my eyes burn with tears I refuse to shed.
“The gallery on Fifth.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
I clutch the phone tighter, suddenly desperate not to disconnect. “Julian, thank you.”
“For what?” he asks.
“For caring.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Always, Elliot. Always.”
As we hang up, I stare out the window at the city rushing by, and despite everything, I feel something I haven’t in a very long time—protected. The man on the other end of that phone would wage war for me. And God help me; I love him for it.
The Uber rounds the corner onto Fifth Avenue, and my heart stops. Flames lick the sky where my gallery once stood proud, orange and angry against the morning blue. Fire trucks line the street, their lights painting the scene in surreal flashes of red.
I stumble out of the car before it fully stops, drawn toward the destruction like a moth to flame. A police barrier prevents me from getting closer, but I don’t need proximity to feel the heat of my life’s work burning away.
“Sir, you need to stay back,” an officer says, but I barely hear him.
“I’m Elliot Chambers. It’s my gallery.”
His expression shifts to pity as he lets me through to speak with the fire chief.
But I hardly register the conversation. My eyes are fixed on the blackened frame of the front windows, where just yesterday, Alessandra’s sculpture series “Unveiled” had been displayed.
Six months of her work—gone. The back room held Jenkins’ entire upcoming show—his breakthrough collection, three years in the making.
My knees nearly buckle. These artists trusted me with their creations, their souls rendered in paint and clay and metal. I was their guardian, their champion in the art world. Now I’ve failed them completely.
A firefighter walks past carrying a charred frame—I recognize it as Miranda’s landscape, the one that sold last week but hadn’t been picked up yet. The canvas inside is nothing but ash.
My phone buzzes with incoming calls from artists who’ve heard the news. I can’t bear to answer right now, to tell them everything they entrusted to me has been destroyed because my mother couldn’t accept who I am.
Insurance should at least cover monetary losses.
I’ve always maintained comprehensive coverage—fire, theft, and natural disaster.
But if they investigate and discover my mother’s involvement, would they rule it a personal conflict?
Classify it as domestic sabotage stemming from my coming out?
I might be deemed partially responsible, invalidating the claim entirely.
I watch another section of the roof collapse inward, sending a fresh plume of smoke and glowing embers skyward. Years of carefully cultivated relationships and reputation vanished in the heat.
A sleek black car pulls up, and Julian emerges, his usual composed demeanor cracked with concern. He spots me immediately, ducking under the police tape despite an officer’s protests. When he reaches me, his arm slides around my waist, steadying me against his solid frame.
“My God, Elliot.” His eyes reflect the dancing flames.
I lean into him, grateful for the support as my legs threaten to give way.
“Everything’s gone, Julian. Everything those artists trusted me with.
Their work, their futures...” My voice breaks.
“And the insurance—what if they investigate and find out it was my mother? They’ll claim it’s a domestic dispute, a personal vendetta. They’ll deny the claim.”
Julian’s fingers tighten on my hip. “Listen to me.” His voice is calm, grounding. “The insurance will pay out. I’ll make sure of it.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because I have relationships with every major insurer in this city.” He turns me to face him, away from the devastation. “Part of my job as an investment banker is managing risk portfolios for these companies. I sit on advisory boards for three of the largest insurance firms in the country.”
I blink up at him, momentarily distracted from the chaos. “You do?”
His mouth quirks into a half-smile. “Did you think I just moved money around all day? The Frost name opens doors, Elliot. My family has been part of this city’s financial backbone for generations.
” He brushes soot from my cheek with gentle fingers.
“Let me handle the insurance company. No matter what they find in their investigation, they will honor your policy.”
“The artists—”
“Will be compensated fully. I promise you.”
The certainty in his voice wraps around me like a warm blanket, and for the first time since receiving that call, I take a full breath.
Julian cups my face between his hands, and before I can react, he kisses me. Right there on the sidewalk, in front of firefighters, police officers, and a growing crowd of onlookers. My body tenses, breath caught in my lungs as his lips press against mine.
When he pulls back, I stare at him wide-eyed. “Anyone could see us,” I whisper, glancing around nervously.
Julian’s thumb strokes my cheek. “Let them.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. After hiding so long, being kissed by a man in broad daylight feels like standing naked in Times Square.
Everyone is focused on the burning gallery—the destruction of my life’s work—but still, the exposure makes my skin prickle with equal parts fear and exhilaration.
“We should go home,” Julian says. “You can’t do anything here, and you look like you’re about to collapse.”
He’s right. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving my limbs heavy and my mind foggy. But something feels wrong about walking away while my gallery burns.
“What if they need me for something?” I gesture vaguely toward the fire chief. “I should be here to answer questions, shouldn’t I?”
Julian nods, his hand finding the small of my back. “Let’s check.”
We approach Chief Donovan, who’s barking orders into a radio. When he sees us, he lowers it.
“Chief, how long do you need Mr. Chambers to stay?” Julian asks. “He’s in shock, and I’d like to take him home.”
The chief’s weathered face softens. “We have your contact information, Mr. Chambers. There’s nothing more you can do here today. We’ll be in touch once we’ve contained the fire and completed our preliminary investigation.”
“You’re sure?” I ask.
“Positive. Go home. Get some rest. We’ll call you.”
Julian guides me away from the smoldering ruins of my life’s work, his arm steady around my waist. I feel hollow, like someone has scooped out my insides with a rusty spoon. Each step requires focus as we move toward the sleek black car waiting at the curb.
“Easy now,” Julian murmurs when I stumble slightly. His voice anchors me to the present, preventing me from drifting back to the flames consuming my gallery.
His driver—Thomas, I think his name is—stands by the rear door, his expression professionally neutral despite the chaos behind us. Julian helps me inside, sliding in after me. The leather seat feels cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from the fire.
“The penthouse, Thomas,” Julian says before raising the privacy partition.
As the car pulls away from the curb, I press my forehead against the tinted window, watching the smoke rise into the sky. My phone vibrates again—another artist calling, no doubt. I can’t face them yet. I turn off notifications and slip it back into my pocket.
“We’ll rebuild,” Julian says, his hand finding mine. His fingers intertwine with my own, warm and reassuring. “Whatever it takes.”
I want to believe him, but the weight of what’s happened crushes down on my chest. “She destroyed everything because I refused to hide anymore.”
Julian’s grip tightens. “And she’ll pay for that. I promise you.”
The car glides through morning traffic, isolating us in our bubble of quiet amid the bustling city. I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted. Julian’s thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, the gentle motion soothing my frayed nerves.
“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
Julian shifts closer, his shoulder pressed against mine. “That’s something you’ll never have to find out.”
We ride in silence after that, his presence beside me more comforting than any words could be.