Chapter 30 Julian
JULIAN
Islip out of bed, careful not to disturb Elliot.
After rubbing our dicks together at three in the morning until we came, followed by his emotional episode, he’s finally fallen into another exhausted sleep, his face still bearing traces of tears.
For a moment, I watch him—the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the vulnerability etched across his features even in sleep.
Something tightens in my chest that I refuse to examine too closely.
Time to get to work.
I shower quickly and dress in my sharpest suit—charcoal Tom Ford with a light blue tie that brings out my eyes. Armor for battle. I leave a note on the nightstand telling Elliot I’ve gone into work, then quietly close the bedroom door behind me.
Once at my office, I immediately make three calls to arrange meetings for the morning. By nine AM, I’m seated behind my desk at Frost Industries, reviewing the Chambers Gallery insurance policy that Victor forwarded to me last night.
At precisely 9:30, my assistant shows in Thomas Whitley, Senior Claims Director at Meridian Insurance. He’s a small man with perpetually worried eyes that dart around my office, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows and minimalist décor.
“Julian,” he nods, taking the seat across from me. “This is highly irregular—”
“Thomas,” I cut him off. “Let’s not waste time. Elliot Chambers filed a claim this morning for the gallery fire. I want it processed immediately. Full payout.”
Whitley shifts uncomfortably. “There are procedures, Julian. An arson investigation is already underway, and if the owner was involved—”
I lean forward. “Elliot Chambers was not involved. His mother, however, was. I have evidence being compiled as we speak.”
“That’s... complicated from a liability perspective.”
I slide a folder across the desk. “Inside you’ll find documentation of Margaret Chambers’ threatening messages to her son, security footage from near the gallery showing her car in the vicinity shortly before the fire, and witness statements.
There’s also a reminder of Meridian’s investment portfolio, of which Frost Industries controls twenty-seven percent. ”
Whitley’s face pales as he flips through the pages.
“Full payout, Thomas. No delays, no questions. Consider it a personal favor.”
Whitley thumbs through the documents, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. This is my element—boardrooms and backroom deals where power is the only language that matters.
“Thomas,” I say, keeping my voice measured.
“The Frost family currently has thirty-two million dollars invested through Meridian’s corporate funds.
” I tap a manicured nail against my desk.
“My father has been considering a restructuring of our family portfolio. I’ve advocated for maintaining our relationship with Meridian, but that becomes difficult when a close associate faces administrative hurdles. ”
His eyes widen slightly. “Julian, I appreciate your position, but there are protocols—”
“Of course there are.” I smile, showing teeth. “And I respect them. Just as I’m sure you respect that AlphaPoint Securities has been courting our business quite aggressively. Their claim processing is remarkably efficient, I hear.”
A bead of sweat forms at his temple.
“However,” I continue, softening my tone, “I’d prefer to maintain our long-standing relationship with Meridian.
In fact, if this situation with the Chambers Gallery resolves favorably, Frost Industries would be open to expanding our investment by another ten million.
We have several new development projects breaking ground next quarter that need insurance coverage. ”
I slide another folder across my desk. “These are the preliminaries. Exclusive to Meridian, if we can demonstrate to my board that your company prioritizes our strategic relationships.”
Thomas picks up the second folder, flipping through proposals worth eight figures in premiums. The calculation happens visibly on his face: one gallery claim versus millions in potential new business.
“I believe we can expedite Mr. Chambers’ claim,” he says finally. “Consider it personally handled.”
“Excellent.” I stand, signaling the meeting’s end. “I knew you’d understand our position. This is why we’ve always valued Meridian’s... flexibility.”
After Whitley leaves, I call Police Commissioner Reynolds. Unlike Thomas, Reynolds doesn’t need the pretense of a face-to-face meeting to understand where he stands.
“Julian, to what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice carries the warmth of career politicians.
“I need the preliminary reports on the Chambers Gallery fire. All of them.”
A pause. “Those are active investigation files.”
“And the Frost Family Foundation just committed to funding the department’s new tactical equipment. All two million dollars’ worth.” I examine my fingernails. “I’d hate to see that funding delayed due to budgetary reassessment.”
Reynolds sighs. “Give me an hour.”
Exactly fifty-three minutes later, my assistant delivers a sealed manila envelope.
The preliminary reports are damning. Accelerant patterns match a distinctive brand of lighter fluid sold at only three stores in Ravenwood.
Security footage from Richards’ Hardware shows Margaret Chambers purchasing two bottles the morning of the fire.
More interestingly, they found that the fire originated in the back office, not in the main gallery space, as one would expect for maximum damage.
The office contained the gallery’s financial records, artist contracts, and insurance documentation.
A desperate attempt to destroy evidence of legitimate business operations.
I add these reports to my growing collection. Next, I request the transcripts of the threatening calls Margaret placed to Elliot from a burner phone. Victor’s contact at the phone company was particularly helpful there.
But Margaret’s vulnerabilities extend far beyond criminal charges. I open a new folder labeled Margaret Chambers and begin documenting every aspect of her life:
Her chairmanship of the Ravenwood Arts Council, where $50,000 mysteriously disappeared last year.
Her three-decade friendship with Judge Patricia Harrison, who suddenly ruled in Margaret’s favor during her acrimonious divorce from her second husband.
The gardener’s son, whom she had fired from his private school scholarship when he rejected her advances.
By mid-afternoon, I have a comprehensive blueprint of Margaret Chambers’ life—every secret, every hypocrisy, every vulnerable point where pressure can be applied until something breaks.
“You wanted to play with fire, Margaret,” I murmur, closing the file. “Let’s see how you handle getting burned.”
I glance at my watch—just after four. Perfect timing. I pick up my phone and dial a number I haven’t used in nearly a year.
“Dr. Larson speaking.” Her voice is crisp and professional, exactly as I remember.
“Amelia. Julian Frost.”
A pause. “Julian. This is unexpected.”
“I require your professional expertise.” I swivel in my chair to face the Manhattan skyline. “How’s your schedule this evening?”
I pull up the Margaret Chambers file on my tablet. “I need a forensic psychological assessment.”
“For a client?”
“For someone who’s become a problem.” I tap through the documented evidence. “Margaret Chambers. Sixty-four. Recently disowned her son for coming out. Then burned down his gallery.”
“That’s... extreme. Criminal charges pending, I assume?”
“In progress.” I forward several documents to her secure email. “What I need from you is a professional assessment of her psychological state. The escalation pattern is particularly concerning.”
“I’m receiving your files now.” I hear the click of her keyboard. “Initial reactions suggest this could indicate an acute stress response manifesting as persecutory behavior, possibly exacerbated by underlying personality pathology.”
“Precisely what I suspected.” I stand, unable to remain still. “I need documentation of that assessment. Her behavior has progressed from verbal abuse to property destruction. I’m concerned about further escalation.”
“Toward her son?”
“Yes.” A chill spreads through my chest at the thought. “She’s already demonstrated she’ll hurt him to punish him. I want to be prepared with a psychological profile that would support an emergency restraining order, or if necessary, an involuntary psychiatric evaluation.”
“I see the text message threats. Those alone are concerning.” Her voice remains clinically detached. “I’ll review everything and have a preliminary assessment ready by tomorrow morning. If the pattern indicates what I suspect, you’ll have grounds for legal intervention.”
“Perfect.” I pause, “This requires your absolute discretion, Amelia.”
“As always, Julian. My professional opinion will be factual and unbiased, but I understand the sensitivity.”
After hanging up with Amelia, I check my phone. No messages from Elliot. I wonder if he’s still sleeping, exhausted from grief and trauma. The thought of him alone in my penthouse, vulnerable and hurting, creates an unfamiliar ache in my chest.
I pull up the photos Victor sent of Margaret Chambers visiting her country club this morning, laughing with friends as if she hadn’t just destroyed her son’s livelihood. My fingers tighten around my phone until my knuckles turn white.
This isn’t business anymore. It’s personal in a way that nothing has ever been for me before. The intensity of my need to protect him should terrify me, but instead, it crystallizes into something sharp and certain inside my chest.
I will burn the world down before I let her hurt him again.