Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Adrien
Brie moves through her apartment with clinical precision, latex gloves ghosting over every surface.
Powder blooms, a fine constellation under angled light.
I pray she’ll find something, though I already know we won’t.
Watching her work reminds me how easily she could disappear again.
Three years I spent chasing the negative space of a woman.
Now she’s real, in danger, and I’m not letting her out of my sight.
On a high shelf sit two suitcases—one carry-on, one large. I pull down the larger and unzip it on the floor. When I kneel, a row of duffels comes into view—black, brown leather, floral.
Go bags? I’ve read plenty of thriller spy books, watched plenty of action films. Even if they’re packed to go, they’re packed with a purpose.
Right now, I’m packing her for something else entirely.
So I set to work, going through her clothes.
Folds clean as scalpel lines. Fabric that doesn’t wrinkle, shoes that don’t slow you down.
Her closet is immaculate—clothes arranged by color; drawers divided like surgical trays. Even her perfumes are slim travel vials, not the ornamental bottles my mother collects. Everything here speaks of mobility, of a life designed to disappear. The thought unsettles me more than I care to admit.
If this is the life she’s chosen, I’m the fool trying to anchor a current. But I’ll be that fool. I’ve already lost her once. Now that I’ve found her, I’m not going to sit by while she takes unnecessary risks.
What if she’d walked in? Did the intruders have guns?
Would they have shot her? Kidnapped her?
She’s talking about a person or group with enough influence and power to threaten sitting U.S.
senators. It’s quite possible these people are my customers—either in upscale fashion or at The Sanctuary.
As a matter of business, I’ve studied these people to better understand their proclivities and desires, to better understand how to sell to them.
These are people who want to be perceived as attractive—that’s the piece I market to, that everything from our advertisements to the experience we provide caters to.
And for many, that’s as much as there is.
But what happens when someone builds themselves up and reaches the top echelon, where every luxury and desire is catered to, if not by me, by others like me?
It’s a lovely life. I know, I was born into it.
It’s so wonderful, in fact, it’s not hard to imagine that someone would go to great lengths to never lose this life.
Some of the self-made men that I study, who we actually categorize into a different subset when defining our target audiences, what would they do to maintain wealth?
And that’s what frightens me—because I know how simple corruption begins.
A whisper. A favor. A wire. Because in my heart, I know what I’d do.
It’s far too easy to make a phone call and wire funds.
The wheels roll over the uneven, weathered wood floor.
She lingers by the piano, latex fingers brushing the keys without pressing them.
One key sighs under the glove and then thinks better of it.
The silence hums, filled with everything we haven’t said, tuned like a string about to sing.
Brie looks up and peels off one of her latex gloves.
“How much did you pack?”
“Enough. There’s a car outside. Are you ready?”
She inhales, scanning the room.
“Did you get anything?”
“No.” She sounds defeated, but that’s the answer I expected.
“Did you expect to?”
“No.”
At least she recognizes what we’re up against.
She locks her apartment door and we descend.
Outside her building, she scans the street thoroughly, as if expecting to spot a camera lens.
A delivery truck idles too long. A man pretends to read a menu he never turns.
I don’t slow, wheeling her bags to the trunk of the waiting sedan.
I don’t doubt someone is out there. I don’t doubt they’ll follow.
Hell, my driver might already be on someone’s payroll.
Let them learn she’s with me. My place is a fortress. No one crosses the threshold without my permission. Let them try the handle and taste their own audacity.
I hold the door for her and walk around to the back.
“Do you ever drive?”
“Occasionally. Parking’s a nightmare unless there’s valet. I keep a car here, two in France. Why—planning an escape?”
She smirks. “No. Just curious.”
I glance to the front of the car. There’s no divider.
The rearview mirror is tilted just enough to be a question.
The driver can hear everything we say. She must realize this, as we ride in silence, our hands close to each other on the center seat, but not touching.
Static lifts the hairs on my wrist where her skin almost warms mine.
When we exit in front of my building, I thank the driver and lead her into the lobby.
I’m not familiar with the doorman, a thirty-something woman with a stocky build and dark hair pulled back into a tight bun, but I head directly to the counter.
“Hello, I’m Adrien d’Avricourt.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. d’Avricourt. I know who you are,” she smiles and her spine visibly straightens. “How can I help you?”
She knows who I am. That’s the extent of it. I haven’t dealt with the front desk in ages—my staff handles everything.
I gesture to Brie and say, “Ms. Anderson will be staying with me indefinitely. Please add her to my authorized access list. Restrict the elevator to my floor until further notice. No visitors without confirmation.”
The woman nods, already typing, her eyes darting up once to confirm she heard right.
With that done, I lead Brie to my private elevator.
Once the door closes, Brie’s gaze roves the lacquered elevator ceiling with light protruding around the rim, beneath the side panels, and casting down onto the floor. “Is there video surveillance?”
“No,” I answer, watching the digital numbers blink past on the panel. “A lobby camera can view anyone entering the elevator, and there’s a security camera in the entryway on my floor, but in no other location.”
“So, hypothetically, this elevator is private?”
“Entirely.”
She smiles. “Dangerous information.”
I fight a smile—half aroused, half exasperated that she can still joke after what happened.
The elevator arrives at the penthouse, signified by the digital letters PH, and I follow Brie into the entry.
She points at the far corner. “One camera. Any others?”
“No.”
I push her suitcase forward into the foyer, stopping at the round entry table. Beside the white orchid centerpiece sits my mail—mundane, normal, safe. The orchid trembles as the wheel taps the pedestal.
“Is someone actively monitoring?”
“No.” The admission stings. My home, my resources, and I didn’t keep her safe in her own apartment. “I’ll have that adjusted tomorrow.”
“There’s no need.” She steps close, hand touching my arm, eyes scanning the mail in my hand. Then her lips brush the side of my neck and everything else falls away. “I just wanted to know if anyone is watching.”
She traces a path of soft kisses to my earlobe and bites gently.
Blood rushes to my groin—instant, demanding. I’m hard before her teeth release my skin. The world narrows to the place her mouth has been and the places it might go. To the fact that she’s here, in my space, safe.
She cups my shaft through my trousers—bold, deliberate—and I nearly groan aloud. My hand finds her hip, tightens, one last flicker of restraint before I give in completely.
I lift her onto the table in one movement.
Orchids tremble as she opens her thighs to me. The air thickens—heat, breath, the taste of anticipation. My hands frame her hips and the city falls to a murmur beyond the glass.
She fumbles with my belt, but I catch her hands. “Not yet.”
First, I need to see her. All of her. In my home, in my light, safe.
I tug at her loose jeans and she shifts on the table, shimmying her hips, lifting so I can pull them down her legs. The baggy clothes she wore for disguise—the wig now discarded, the piercings removed—they hid her. I want her revealed.
“This too.” I hook my fingers under the hem of her camisole.
She lifts her arms and I pull the fabric over her head, revealing skin I’ve mapped in darkness but never here, never in daylight filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. She’s bare from the waist up, beautiful, and mine to protect.
“I should probably shower,” she says, suddenly self-conscious. “My hair’s been in a wig cap for hours.”
“I don’t care.” My gaze drags over her—heat-dazed, possessive. My fingers dig into her thighs as I spread them wider. “Lean back.”
She hesitates—exposed, vulnerable on my entry table in afternoon light—but I spread her wider, not waiting. Not when I need this. Need to taste her safety, her trust, her presence in my space.
My tongue drags through her center and the flower arrangement rocks precariously. I yank her closer to the edge, one hand splayed across her lower belly, the other gripping her thigh. She tastes like salt and citrus and the end of restraint.
Her fingers slide into my hair—hesitant, then sure—tightening as I work her with tongue and fingers, merciless now. She moans, and I take every sound like proof she’s here, she’s safe, she’s mine.
Broken syllables spill from her—maybe oh my god, maybe my name, maybe nothing but need—until her thighs tighten around my head and her back arches off the polished wood.
I gentle my movements, kissing my way up her trembling abdomen, between her breasts, to her mouth. She tastes like breathless laughter from another life—a fantasy made real.
The Tower holds.
Not collapse—revelation. For once, destruction gives way to clarity. She’s here because she chose safety. Chose me. Chose us.
When we kiss, she tastes like trust and tomorrow. Her hands fumble with my belt again, and this time I let her. She releases me, slicks my crown with her thumb, then strokes with intention that makes my vision blur.
“Adrien.” My name is permission and plea.
The table’s the perfect height—almost like I planned this. I position myself at her entrance, meet her eyes for confirmation.
She nods, pulls me closer.
The first slow thrust steals both our breath. Home. This is what coming home feels like—her heat surrounding me, her legs wrapping around my hips, her hands gripping my shoulders like I’m the anchor in a storm she didn’t know she was weathering.
“Stay,” I murmur against her mouth, though whether I’m asking her to stay in my apartment or stay in this moment or stay in my life, I don’t know.
“I’m here,” she whispers back.
For now, it’s enough.