Chapter Seven
~ Julian ~
I rolled the length of my home office, each thrust of the wheels betraying the tension I couldn't quite suppress. The Italian marble beneath my wheels felt too smooth, too perfect, while my mind churned with scenarios that grew darker with every passing second.
Michael stood at attention near my desk, his imposing figure barely contained by the expensive suit he wore, his eyes tracking me as if expecting an explosion.
The tablet in his hand displayed surveillance photos that made my jaw clench so tightly I could feel a headache forming at my temples. Harris was getting closer, and the thought of his hands anywhere near Connor made something primal stir behind my carefully constructed control.
"He's been to the campus bookstore twice," Michael reported, his voice clinically detached as always. "Made inquiries using Connor's former name. Claimed to be a relative looking to deliver an inheritance. Same approach at the café."
I wheeled around sharply, my hands gripping the armrests until my knuckles whitened. "And the apartment?"
"His associates were there yesterday. Former roommates confirmed Connor hadn't returned since before your... meeting." Michael's hesitation on the last word was the closest he'd come to acknowledging the unusual circumstances of my marriage.
"Timeline?" I demanded, cutting through whatever diplomatic phrasing he might have been searching for.
"Based on increased activity, I'd estimate less than seventy-two hours before they make a connection to you."
Seventy-two hours. Three days before the predator hunting my husband discovered his new name, his new location, his new life.
"Double the security detail. I want eyes on him at all times," I said, my voice razor-edged. "Setup monitoring on all of Connor's old accounts, credit cards, social media—anything that might give us advance warning if they try to impersonate him or contact him directly."
Michael nodded, making notes on his tablet. "Already in progress. We've also initiated background checks on everyone in the building and a security upgrade for the penthouse systems."
"Not good enough." I moved to the window, staring down at the city below where Harris was out there somewhere, searching. "I want protective details on standby. If Harris approaches within a hundred yards of Connor, I want him intercepted."
"Julian," Michael said, using my first name—a rarity that indicated his concern. "We need to be careful about the legality of—"
"I don't care about legality," I snapped, spinning my chair to face him. "I care about Connor's safety. Whatever resources we need, whatever it costs—make it happen."
Michael's expression didn't change, but I caught the subtle straightening of his shoulders. "Understood. I'll coordinate with the team and update the protocols."
"And Michael?" I added as he turned to leave. "Get me everything on Harris—business dealings, personal history, every skeleton in his closet. I want leverage."
"Already compiling a dossier," he replied, efficiently professional once more. "I'll have a preliminary report by evening."
After he left, closing the door with a soft click that somehow conveyed more than a slam could have, I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the situation settle across my shoulders like a familiar burden.
"He won't touch what's mine," I muttered to the empty room, the possessiveness in my voice surprising even me.
When had I started thinking of Connor in those terms? Not just as my legal husband or an unexpected physical compatibility, but as something—someone—I couldn't bear to lose?
I massaged my temples, then wheeled myself out of the office and down the hallway toward my study. I needed to warn Connor, to prepare him for what might be coming.
I found him standing before the built-in bookcase where I kept some personal items—awards, mementos, and a few carefully selected photographs from before the accident. He was holding one of the frames, his head tilted slightly as he studied the image.
For a moment, I simply watched him, taking in the casual grace of his stance, the way his borrowed t-shirt clung to his shoulders, the absent-minded way he tucked his hair behind his ear. When had this stranger become someone whose habits I noticed, whose presence I sought out?
"Find anything interesting?" I asked, breaking the silence.
Connor turned, not startled but not quite relaxed either. "Just getting to know the man behind the CEO title," he said, holding up the photograph—a corporate headshot taken about six months before the accident. "You never smile in these."
The observation was simple but unexpectedly perceptive.
I moved closer, studying the image over his shoulder.
The man in the photograph was impeccably dressed in a suit that cost more than some people's monthly salary, his expression confident but reserved, no hint of a smile softening his features.
"Most corporate photos aim for dignity and seriousness, not warmth," I replied, the rehearsed answer slipping out automatically.
Connor shook his head. "It's not just this one. None of them show you smiling, not the industry awards, not the charity galas, not even the vacation photos." He pointed to another frame, a perfectly composed shot of me on a yacht in the Mediterranean. "Was success really that serious a business?"
I reached for the frame he held, our fingers brushing momentarily. The brief contact sent a now familiar warmth through me, a sensation I was still adjusting to after years of numbness.
"I had less to smile about then," I said, surprising myself with the gentleness in my voice, the unintended truth in the words.
Connor's eyes widened slightly, searching my face with an intensity that made me want to look away. No one had looked at me like that since before the accident—like they were seeing past the wheelchair, past the wealth, past the carefully constructed facade to something underneath.
"And now?" he asked softly.
Before I could answer—before I could examine too closely what my answer might have been—my tablet pinged with an alert. I pulled it from the pocket of my wheelchair, the screen illuminating with a security notification.
Someone had accessed Connor's old employment records at the bookstore. The digital trail led back to a private server registered to one of Harris's shell companies.
I felt my expression harden instantly, muscles tensing as the brief moment of vulnerability evaporated. This wasn't some abstract threat anymore. Harris was actively hunting Connor, methodically tracking down every piece of his past.
"We need to talk," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous register that made Connor's eyes widen further.
"That doesn't sound good," he said, setting the photograph back on the shelf. "Is this about the calls Michael mentioned?"
I gripped the tablet tighter, wishing I could shield him from what was coming. But Connor deserved the truth—the full truth about his mother, about Harris, about exactly what kind of danger was closing in around us.
"It's about why they're looking for you," I said, wheeling toward the door. "And what they'll do if they find you."
Connor followed, his earlier ease replaced with the wariness of someone who had learned early that bad news always arrived eventually. "Julian, you're scaring me."
"Good," I replied, not slowing. "You should be scared. But I promise you this—" I stopped abruptly, turning to face him. "They will not touch you again. Not while I'm breathing."
The fierce protectiveness in my voice surprised us both. In the boardroom, I was known for cold calculation, not emotional declarations. Yet here I was, making promises I had no logical reason to keep to a man I barely knew.
Except that wasn't true anymore, was it? In the span of days, Connor had become more than a stranger, more than a convenient legal arrangement. He'd become someone I was willing to fight for.
And fight I would.
I put off telling Connor what was going on until we ate dinner. I doubted he’d be able to eat anything once I him what I had discovered. I knew and I was having trouble.
I watched Connor from across the formal dining table, the elaborate meal between us barely touched. Crystal glasses caught and fractured the chandelier's light, casting prisms across the immaculate tablecloth.
The room felt too large suddenly, the twelve-foot table creating an unnecessary distance when what I wanted was to shield him from what I had to say, but Connor deserved the truth, however painful.
I took a slow sip of wine, collecting my thoughts, wondering if there was any gentle way to tell someone their family had sold them like property. There wasn't.
"You're being unusually quiet," Connor observed, his fork pushing around the perfectly seared scallop on his plate. "Whatever you need to say, just say it. I've survived this long by facing things head-on."
His directness, that refusal to hide behind social niceties, was one of the things that had drawn me to him from the beginning. It made what I had to do both easier and infinitely harder.
"What do you remember about the night we met?" I asked carefully, setting my wine glass down with precision.
Connor's expression softened slightly, a hint of color touching his cheeks. "I remember breaking into your hotel room. Being drugged. And..." he glanced away briefly, "what happened after."
"Before that," I pressed. "The family dinner. Your mother."
His face clouded. "Not much. It's hazy. I remember the restaurant, ordering drinks, and then everything gets... fragmented." His fingers tightened around his fork. "Why? What does this have to do with Harris looking for me?"
I took a deep breath. There was no way to soften this blow, no way to make it anything other than the horrific truth it was.
"Your parents didn't just drug you, Connor. They sold you. You told me about it that night and I’ve been looking into it ever since. Now, we have concrete evidence."