Chapter 34 Julian
JULIAN
Ireturn from my early morning meeting feeling unusually light. The prospect of seeing Elliot still sleeping in my bed brings an unfamiliar warmth to my chest. The night before replays in my mind—his confession, my response. We’re navigating uncharted territory together.
My thoughts screech to a halt when I reach my door. It’s slightly ajar. The sleek metal lock bears obvious scratch marks—someone forced their way in.
Panic slams into me like a physical blow. I’ve navigated hostile takeovers and criminal enterprises without breaking a sweat, but this unfamiliar fear paralyzes me for three heartbeats.
“Elliot!” I shove the door open, my voice echoing through the penthouse. “Elliot, are you here?”
The silence that answers me is wrong. My home looks undisturbed at first glance—no overturned furniture, no obvious signs of struggle in the living room. But something feels off. The air feels disturbed, like a predator has passed through.
“Elliot!” I rush toward the bedroom, my heart pounding against my ribs. The bedroom door stands open, the sheets rumpled. A crystal paperweight lies on the floor, and there’s a smear of something dark on the white carpet.
Blood.
My fingers tremble as I reach for my phone. This isn’t random. Margaret Chambers comes immediately to mind—her vicious smile in those country club photos, the premeditated arson, her willingness to destroy her son’s livelihood. What would she do to Elliot himself?
I scan the room for clues, anything that might tell me where he’s been taken. His phone sits on the floor. His watch is missing—a small mercy if he managed to activate its emergency features.
The bathroom door is ajar. I push it open, finding nothing but pristine tiles and empty space. I slam my fist against the wall.
“Where are you?” I whisper, the question aimed at ghosts.
I reach for my phone with trembling fingers, pulling up the data on Elliot’s watch. It’s showing as still in the apartment, but I haven’t seen it. Maybe the battery was dead. Fuck. I instantly dial my security team’s direct line.
“Frost residence emergency protocol. Initiate now.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears—tight, clipped, edged with something I barely recognize as fear.
“Yes, Sir. What’s the nature of the emergency?”
“Home invasion. Possible kidnapping.” The words feel like gravel in my throat. “My... Elliot Chambers has been taken from my penthouse. I need every camera feed within a ten-block radius, vehicles entering and exiting my building’s garage in the last hour.”
The security chief’s voice sharpens. “Notifying the team now, Mr. Frost. Should we contact the authorities?”
“I’ll handle that. Just move.”
I disconnect and immediately dial 911, pacing the length of my bedroom as I report the crime.
Their questions feel endless, each second stretching while Elliot is somewhere, possibly hurt.
When they finally promise to send officers, I hang up, already knowing how this will play out—reports, statements, procedure. All too slow for what I need.
I scroll to a contact, my finger hovering over the name. Jenson. The Blackwood brothers’ most valuable asset—their spymaster. The man who finds what doesn’t want to be found.
He answers on the second ring.
“Julian. This is unexpected.”
“I need your help.” No preamble, no negotiation. “Elliot has been taken from my home. I believe it’s his mother, Margaret Chambers. I don’t have time for police protocols.”
A pause. “The gallery owner? Your prey from the Hunt?”
“Yes.” I swallow hard. “He’s more than that now.”
Jenson’s silence speaks volumes before he finally responds. “I understand. I’ll activate my network immediately. We’ll find him, Julian.”
“Whatever resources you need—”
“Consider it done. I’ll contact you the moment I have something.”
I pace my penthouse like a caged animal, unable to sit still for even a moment.
The blood smear on the carpet taunts me.
My hands shake as I run them through my hair for the twentieth time in as many minutes.
This isn’t like me—I don’t lose control.
I don’t panic. Yet here I am, my heart racing, my breath shallow, my mind spinning with horrific possibilities.
Coffee spills over the rim of my cup as I set it down too forcefully on the counter. I don’t bother cleaning it up. I check my phone again. Twenty-three minutes since I called Jenson. Twenty-three minutes of pure hell.
The police arrive, take statements, and promise to “do everything they can.” Their platitudes mean nothing. They don’t understand who took Elliot or why. They don’t understand what Margaret Chambers is capable of.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I answer before the first ring completes.
“Jenson. Tell me you have something.”
“I do.” His voice is calm, efficient. “My team pulled security footage from your building’s garage. Two men carried Elliot out at 5:42 this morning. He appeared unconscious. They loaded him into a black van, no windows on the back compartment.”
My knuckles turn white around the phone. “License plate?”
“Partial capture only, but we’ve traced the vehicle. It belongs to the First Light Church of Redemption on the outskirts of Ravenwood.”
The name strikes a chord of recognition and dread. “First Light? They’re fundamentalists. Extremists.”
“Yes. And they have known connections to conversion therapy programs. They operate under the radar, but they’re there. My sources confirm Margaret Chambers has been attending services there for the past three months.”
The room spins around me. Conversion therapy. The words echo in my head, conjuring images too terrible to contemplate.
“I need an address for the church. And I need to know if they have any other properties—somewhere isolated they’d take someone for their ‘therapy.’” My voice emerges mechanical, stripped of emotion.
Jenson pauses. “There’s an old hunting lodge registered to their pastor. Secluded location, twenty minutes outside town.”
“Send me both addresses. I’m going to need additional support.”
I end the call and immediately dial Xavier.
“Julian. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Elliot Chambers has been kidnapped from my home. First Light Church of Redemption is responsible.” I maintain perfect control, each word precisely measured. “His mother arranged it. They’re attempting conversion therapy.”
Silence stretches between us.
“That’s unfortunate. Why bring this to me?” Xavier’s tone is neutral, but I detect the undercurrent of interest.
“Because I intend to retrieve him, and I require help from people who understand discretion and force.” I move to my safe and enter the combination with steady fingers. “Margaret Chambers believes her position protects her from consequences. I want her to understand how mistaken she is.”
“This is rather personal for you.” It’s not a question.
“Yes.” I remove my handgun, checking the magazine. “I’ve never asked you for anything, Xavier. I’m asking now.”
Another pause. “Vane and I will meet you at your penthouse in twenty minutes.”
“Thank you.”
I slide the gun into the back of my pants.
My rage is a glacier—massive, inexorable, and absolutely deadly. Margaret Chambers believes herself righteous. She’s about to learn what true judgment feels like.
The Blackwood brothers will ensure no one stops us. And I will ensure no one touches Elliot again.