Chapter Four
~ Julian ~
I watched Connor's eyes widen as the elevator doors slid open to reveal my penthouse. His jaw actually dropped—a reaction I'd seen countless times from business associates and potential lovers alike, but never from someone who was now legally my husband.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
Most people spent years dating before marriage; we'd done everything backward, starting with sex, moving to marriage, and now we were at the "getting to know you" stage. If my board of directors could see me now, they'd probably stage an intervention.
"This is..." Connor trailed off, stepping hesitantly onto the Italian marble floor of the foyer as if afraid he might crack it.
"Home," I supplied, maneuvering my wheelchair past him with practiced ease. "At least, it's my home. Now yours too, I suppose."
That concept still hadn't fully registered. I'd lived alone since the accident, my privacy becoming a fortress I rarely allowed anyone to breach. Now I'd invited a virtual stranger to share my space—and my name.
Temporary insanity, perhaps. Or maybe something more fundamental that I wasn't ready to examine too closely.
Michael entered behind us, directing the security team as they carried in what appeared to be Connor's worldly possessions—a worn duffel bag, a backpack with frayed straps, and a battered laptop case. The sum total would barely fill one drawer in my walk-in closet.
The contrast between his meager belongings and my three-floor penthouse with its soaring ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city struck me as almost obscene.
Connor stood frozen in the center of the foyer, looking like he was afraid to touch anything. His borrowed clothes—the ones I'd had delivered to the hotel—hung a bit loosely on his frame, making him appear younger and more vulnerable than he had last night.
Last night, when he'd been anything but vulnerable.
I cleared my throat, banishing the memory of his hands on my body. "The staff will be waiting in the main living room. They usually arrive at six, but I called them in early given the... circumstances."
"Staff?" Connor's eyes widened further. "Like, plural?"
"Just a housekeeper, a cook, and my personal assistant," I said, as if that were the most normal thing in the world, which, in my world, it was.
I led the way through the foyer, my wheels gliding silently over the marble floor and then onto the plush carpet of the main living area. Connor followed, his footsteps hesitant behind me.
The staff stood in a neat line—Mrs. Chen, my housekeeper; James, my personal chef; and Natalie, my assistant.
All three wore expressions of professional neutrality that didn't quite hide their curiosity. I'd called ahead, of course, to inform them I was bringing home a husband.
The word had sounded strange even to my own ears.
"Everyone," I said, stopping my chair in front of them, "I'd like you to meet Connor Montgomery, my husband."
The word still felt foreign on my tongue—husband—like trying to pronounce a word from a language I'd never studied. Yet there was also something possessive in it that sent an unexpected thrill through me.
Get a grip, Julian. This is business, not pleasure.
Except that wasn't entirely true, was it? Not after last night.
Mrs. Chen's eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline, though she quickly schooled her features back into professional composure. James's mouth opened slightly before he caught himself.
Only Natalie, who had been with me through the worst days after my accident, managed to maintain her perfect poker face.
"Yes, it was a whirlwind romance," I added dryly, unable to resist. "Shakespeare would be jealous."
Connor shot me a look that was half-amusement, half-exasperation. I hadn't expected him to appreciate the humor—most people found my dry wit off-putting—but there was a spark of understanding in his eyes that caught me off guard.
"It's lovely to meet you all," Connor said, stepping forward with more confidence than I'd expected. He extended his hand first to Mrs. Chen, who took it with a slight bow.
"Welcome home, Mr. Montgomery," she said, the smallest emphasis on his new surname.
Connor flushed slightly at the name, the pink creeping up his neck in a way that was oddly endearing.
God, I was losing my mind.
"Thank you," he replied, somehow managing dignity despite his obvious discomfort. "I hope I won't be too much trouble."
"It's our job to assist," Natalie said smoothly, taking his hand next. Her eyes flicked to me briefly, full of questions she was too professional to ask in front of others. "If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask."
James was last, offering a warm smile along with his handshake. "Any dietary restrictions or preferences I should know about, Mr. Montgomery?"
Connor looked momentarily startled at being asked his preferences, as if the concept was alien. "I... eat pretty much anything. I'm not picky."
I wonder how many meals he's skipped to make rent.
The thought came unbidden, followed by an unexpected surge of protectiveness. "Connor will need breakfast ready by seven tomorrow," I said, taking control of the conversation. "I'll be showing him around the penthouse this evening. Mrs. Chen, please prepare the master suite for both of us."
That last directive made Connor's eyes widen slightly, but he didn't contradict me. Good. At least he understood that appearances mattered.
"Of course, Mr. Montgomery," Mrs. Chen replied, her tone giving nothing away. "I'll see to it immediately."
I dismissed the staff with a nod, and they dispersed to their respective duties, though not without curious glances at Connor. I couldn't blame them. In the three years since my accident, I'd never brought anyone home, let alone a husband.
Connor stood awkwardly in the center of the living room, his secondhand clothes and obvious discomfort marking him as clearly out of place among the custom furniture and priceless artwork. He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels as he took in the expansive space.
"So," he said, breaking the silence, "does the Smithsonian know you've stolen their east wing?"
I snorted, surprising myself. "The Smithsonian's design aesthetic is far inferior to mine."
"Clearly," Connor agreed, gesturing to a sculpture on a nearby pedestal. "That looks expensive enough to fund my entire education."
"It probably could," I admitted. "Twice over."
Connor let out a low whistle, then looked back at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "Why am I here, Julian? Really?"
The directness of the question caught me off guard. Most people in my world navigated conversations through layers of subtext and implication. Connor's bluntness was refreshing, if uncomfortable.
"You made a promise," I replied, wheeling closer to him. "And I'm holding you to it."
"Yeah, but there are easier ways to handle that than marriage," he pointed out. "You could have just hired me as... I don't know, your personal assistant or something."
"I already have an assistant," I said, gesturing toward the direction Natalie had gone. "Besides, marriage provides certain legal protections that employment doesn't."
"Right," Connor said, nodding slowly. "Like spousal privilege. In case my mother tries to sue me for running away while she was trying to drug me."
I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. "Among other things."
Connor's eyes met mine, searching for something. "Is that all it is? Legal protection?"
The question hung between us, weighted with everything we weren't saying about what had happened in that hotel room. About the way his touch had awakened parts of me I'd thought dead. About the inexplicable connection that had formed between us in the span of twenty-four chaotic hours.
"For now," I said finally, "let's just say I keep my promises too."
The flush returned to Connor's cheeks, and I knew he understood exactly what I was promising.
I led Connor down the hallway to my study, trying not to notice how his borrowed clothes still managed to hint at the body underneath—the body that had somehow reawakened mine after three years of nothing.
The memory of his weight on my lap, his hands exploring with such unrestrained enthusiasm, threatened to derail my focus on the business at hand. Because that's what this was supposed to be… business, a transaction a mutually beneficial arrangement.
Not... whatever had happened between us in that hotel room. Whatever had made my dead nerves sing for the first time since metal and glass had rewritten my future.
"This is where I work when I'm at home," I said, pushing open the heavy oak door with practiced ease.
My study was my sanctuary—the one room in the penthouse that felt entirely mine.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound first editions and well-worn law books from my days before I became a CEO.
The massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, its surface gleaming under the warm light of the antique banker's lamp.
Connor let out a low whistle as he entered behind me. "Pretty sure I saw this room in a movie once. Right before someone got murdered with a candlestick."
"I prefer the lead pipe myself," I replied dryly. "Less mess."
That earned me a surprised laugh, the sound warming something in my chest that I immediately tried to freeze again. This was not about connection. This was about protection—his from his mother, and mine from... well, from whatever was happening to my body when he was near.
"Have a seat," I said, gesturing to one of the leather chairs facing my desk as I wheeled around to my usual position.
Connor lowered himself into the chair, his movements carrying a casual grace that drew my eye despite my best intentions. He sprawled slightly, one leg stretched out, somehow making the formal chair look comfortable.