Chapter 28 Julian
JULIAN
The ride back to my penthouse is silent. Elliot stares out the window, his face blank, eyes distant. I’ve seen shock before—the hollow gaze, the mechanical movements—but seeing it on Elliot hits me differently.
When we arrive, I guide him through the lobby with my hand at the small of his back. His body moves on autopilot. The doorman nods respectfully, his eyes widening slightly at Elliot’s disheveled appearance, but knowing better than to comment.
“Almost there,” I murmur as we step into the elevator. Elliot doesn’t respond.
Inside my penthouse, I lead him to the couch. He sits without protest, his hands limp in his lap, still smelling faintly of smoke.
“Elliot?” I crouch in front of him, searching his face. His eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away. “I’m going to run you a bath.”
No response.
I squeeze his knee gently before heading to the master bathroom.
The marble tub—large enough for two—takes up one corner beneath floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
I start the water, adjusting the temperature until it’s just shy of too hot.
From the cabinet, I select bath salts that promise relaxation and pour them generously under the running water.
Steam rises, fogging the windows and mirrors. I add a few drops of lavender oil—something I keep for my rare moments of self-indulgence. The scent fills the room, calming even to me.
When I return to the living room, Elliot hasn’t moved. His gaze is fixed on something I can’t see.
“Bath’s ready,” I say softly.
He blinks slowly, then looks up at me. “She took everything.”
I reach for his hand. “Not everything. Come on.”
I help him stand, surprised by how pliant he is. This isn’t the stubborn gallery owner who challenged me at every turn during the Hunt. This is someone else—someone broken.
“Let’s get these clothes off you,” I say, gently unbuttoning his shirt. “They smell like smoke.”
I help Elliot out of his clothes, noting how he allows me to undress him without protest—no shy glances or remarks. Just empty compliance. It’s unsettling. This is not the man who fought me at every turn during the Hunt, whose surrender I had to earn.
“Step in,” I murmur, steadying him as he climbs into the tub.
He sinks into the water with a small sigh—the first sign he’s still present somewhere inside himself. The water rises around his chest as he leans back, his eyes fixed on some invisible point across the room.
I roll up my sleeves and kneel beside the tub, reaching for the washcloth and soap. This isn’t what I’d planned when I imagined having Elliot in my bathroom. There’s nothing sexual about this moment.
“I’m going to wash you, okay?” I say, not expecting an answer.
He nods almost imperceptibly. Permission granted.
I dip the cloth into the warm water and rub it against the soap until it lathers. Starting with his shoulders, I move in gentle circles. His muscles are tense beneath my touch, holding the weight of everything he’s lost.
“She knew exactly how to hurt me,” he whispers, still staring ahead.
I pause, the cloth resting against his collarbone. “I know.”
I continue washing him, one arm at a time, each finger individually cleaned. This level of care feels foreign, yet somehow essential.
When I reach his face, I tilt his chin toward me with tenderness I didn’t know I was capable of. His eyes finally focus on mine, filled with such profound loss that I almost feel his hurt. I wipe away the tear tracks, which are remnants of his mother’s cruelty.
After the bath, I wrap Elliot in a plush towel and dry his skin. His body moves mechanically under my guidance.
“Let’s get you into something comfortable,” I say, leading him to my bedroom.
I rummage through my dresser, pulling out a soft gray T-shirt and black sweatpants—clothes I reserve for those rare nights when even I need to drop the facade of perfection.
“Arms up,” I instruct.
Elliot complies without a word, letting me guide the shirt over his head like he’s a child.
I spent hours breaking down his walls during the Hunt, but this—this is something else entirely.
This isn’t freeing a man from the expectant confines of an overbearing harpy; it’s utter devastation.
Betrayal at the hands of someone who is supposed to love him unconditionally, and there’s no way in hell I am going to let it go unanswered.
I help him step into the sweatpants, which fit perfectly.
“Better?” I ask.
He nods, his fingers running absently over the soft fabric. “Thank you.”
In the kitchen, I pour each of us a glass of cabernet.
We settle on the couch; his body curled toward mine, but not quite touching.
We co-exist quietly through the rest of the day and into evening.
It took some convincing, but I finally convinced him to eat by having my driver pick up chinese food for us around four o'clock.
“What happens now?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
I take a careful sip of wine before answering. “First, we make sure the insurance pays out. Then, we rebuild. Her actions won’t go unpunished, Elliot.”
“She’ll fight it. She’ll say I was conducting immoral activities on the premises.”
“Let her try.” I set my glass down. “This isn’t my first time dealing with insurance companies. Or vindictive people.”
His eyes meet mine, searching. “Why are you helping me?”
I consider deflecting with a joke or reminder of our arrangement, but something in his broken expression demands honesty. “Because no one deserves what she did to you. What she’s been doing to you your entire life.”
He nods and continues to drink. Within minutes, he’s dozing, and I carefully remove the half-full glass from his fingers, draping a blanket over him.
While he’s asleep, I make calls, first to Victor, who handles my legal matters.
“I need everything you have on insurance fraud and arson investigations,” I tell him, keeping my voice low. “And I need eyes on Margaret Chambers.”
Next, I call a contact who has connections at every insurance company worth mentioning.
“I need a favor,” I begin. “It’s about the Chambers Gallery.”
Elliot stirs, and I see the pain of reality crash back in on him, as he relives the day once again.
He reaches for his wine, and as he finishes it, his eyes grow heavy.
It’s early still. Only six o’clock in the evening, but the emotional toll of the day has drained him completely.
His body sways with exhaustion, fighting to stay upright.
“Come on,” I say, taking the glass from his hand. “You need rest.”
He doesn’t protest as I help him stand, his body leaning into mine for support. I guide him down the hall to my bedroom.
Elliot stands at the edge of my bed. I pull back the covers and gesture for him to get in.
“Let’s get an early night,” I tell him, my voice gentler than I knew it could be. “Tomorrow will be... complicated.”
He nods mutely and slides between my sheets. I move to the other side, turning off the lamp before settling in beside him. For a moment, we lie there in the darkness, not touching, the only sound our breathing as it gradually synchronizes.
Then Elliot shifts, turning toward me. I feel his hesitation, the question in his movement. Without a word, I open my arm in invitation.
He curls against my chest, his body fitting against mine like it was designed to be there. I feel the dampness of silent tears soaking my skin, but he makes no sound. My arms tighten around him instinctively.
I press my lips to the top of his head, breathing in the scent of my shampoo in his hair. “I’ve got you,” I whisper.
The weight of him against me should feel uncomfortable. I don’t do this—this quiet intimacy without the promise of sex. Yet as his breathing gradually evens out, his body relaxing into sleep, I find myself sinking deeper into the mattress, tension I didn’t know I was carrying melting away.
There’s something profound in this moment—in being needed for comfort rather than pleasure, in being trusted when his world has shattered. I never expected to find peace in someone else’s vulnerability, yet here I am, holding Elliot like he’s something precious while his world falls apart.