Chapter 23 Penthouses And Paper Walls
Penthouses And Paper Walls
~ROSEMARIE~
The address doesn't exist.
I'm standing on a corner in what I think is the right neighborhood, staring at my phone like it's personally betrayed me.
The GPS keeps spinning, recalculating, spinning again.
The little blue dot that's supposed to represent me bounces around the map like it's having an existential crisis.
The winter wind cuts through my coat, reminding me that standing motionless on a street corner in February is not ideal.
Julian invited me to his place. His sleek penthouse overlooking Oakridge Hollow, he said. Very specific. Very Julian. And yet somehow, his address refuses to appear in any navigation app known to humanity. He texted it to me exactly as written, I double-checked three times, and still—nothing.
I've tried Google Maps. Apple Maps. Even that weird third-party app that's supposed to find obscure locations that the mainstream services miss.
Nothing. It's like Julian's penthouse exists in some parallel dimension that technology can't access.
The street name appears to be correct, but the building number just.. . vanishes into the digital void.
Which, honestly, tracks. The man himself seems to exist in his own parallel dimension most of the time. He's a mystery wrapped in designer clothes and topped with a permanent scowl.
I ordered an Uber anyway, hoping the driver might know the area better than my phone.
The car pulls up—a dented sedan that's seen better decades, paint peeling and one headlight flickering ominously—and the driver rolls down his window with an expression that suggests he's already regretting accepting this fare.
"Where the hell are you going?" he demands before I can even open my mouth.
His scent hits me through the open window—stale cigarettes and cheap cologne and the sour undertone of an Alpha who's been driving too long without a break.
There's anger simmering beneath his surface, the kind that has nothing to do with me but will absolutely be directed at me anyway.
"Or did you just waste my time ordering a ride with no destination? "
I blink, momentarily stunned by his hostility. "I'm trying to find—"
I don't get to finish my sentence.
A splash of water—no, not a splash, a deluge—comes flying from somewhere above us and hits the driver square in the face through his open window.
He sputters, gasps, claws at his eyes like he's been attacked by an invisible waterfall.
His shirt is soaked. His seat is soaked.
Half the interior of his car is now dripping.
I look up.
Julian is leaning out of a window three stories above us, an empty pitcher dangling from his elegant fingers. He's dressed impeccably—charcoal sweater, perfectly styled hair, expression of supreme irritation—like he didn't just assault a man with what appears to be an entire gallon of water.
"First," Julian calls down, his voice carrying that crisp, controlled tone that makes boardrooms fall silent, "you should learn how to speak to a lady instead of demanding bullshit when she clearly hadn't finished ordering your services."
The driver sputters, wiping water from his eyes. "What the fuck, man? I'm going to—"
Julian arches a single, devastating eyebrow.
Just that. Nothing else. No threats, no posturing, no flexing of Alpha dominance. Just one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in a way that somehow conveys entire novels worth of "try me and see what happens."
The driver grits his teeth so hard I can hear them grinding.
For a moment, I think he's actually going to get out of the car and escalate this into something physical.
But then his survival instincts apparently kick in, because he mutters "never fucking mind" under his breath, slams his car into drive, and peels away from the curb fast enough to leave tire marks.
Well. That was... something.
I look back up at Julian, who's watching the retreating Uber with the satisfied expression of a cat who's just successfully intimidated a dog ten times its size.
"What kind of juju did you just use on him?" I call up, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.
Julian shrugs slightly—the most minimal motion possible while still technically qualifying as a shrug.
"They're all the same. Loud and angry until you intimidate them with cleanliness and silence.
They meet their match and run with their tails between their legs.
" He pauses, studying the empty street where the Uber disappeared.
"He's no different from most Alphas who come through here hoping to make some quick change before moving to the next town. "
Cleanliness and silence. That's... actually a terrifyingly accurate description of Julian's particular brand of intimidation. He doesn't need to raise his voice or puff up his chest. He just has to exist at people until they realize they're outmatched.
"Follow me," Julian says, disappearing from the window.
A moment later, I hear a door open somewhere, and then he's emerging from the building's entrance, keys in hand.
He points toward a sleek hybrid Mercedes parked at the curb—silver, immaculate, probably worth more than everything I own combined. "This way."
I blink at him. "Did you... come to pick me up?"
The faintest flush of color touches his cheekbones—so subtle I almost miss it. "Fuck no." He says it quickly, dismissively. "I was simply in the area and realized you were standing there looking foolish."
In the area. Of his own building. Where he lives. Standing at his own window with a pitcher of water conveniently ready to throw at rude drivers.
Sure, Julian. Very convincing.
I giggle—actually giggle—at his transparent denial. "Thank you. For the rescue and the ride."
He huffs, that sound I'm beginning to recognize as Julian's version of emotional expression. "I didn't stop for you," he emphasizes, unlocking the Mercedes with a click. "Get in before someone else tries to yell at you."
The interior of his car smells like expensive leather and something subtly masculine—sandalwood maybe, or cedar, mixed with the crisp notes of whatever cologne Julian wears.
It's clean to the point of sterility, not a single speck of dust or stray receipt anywhere.
The dashboard gleams. The floor mats look like they've never been stepped on.
OCD tendencies, I remember from something Tank mentioned once. Julian likes control. Julian likes order. Julian likes everything in its precisely designated place.
The drive is short—just around the corner and into an underground parking garage. The building is a miniature condo complex, newer construction, all clean lines and modern architecture. Not as towering as the skyscrapers in the city, but clearly the nicest residential building in Oakridge Hollow.
Julian leads me to an elevator that requires a key card, then up to the top floor. The doors open directly into his penthouse, and I have to actively stop myself from gasping.
Oh.
The space is stunning. Minimalist luxury taken to an art form.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate one entire wall, offering a panoramic view of Oakridge Hollow spread out below—the quaint downtown, the surrounding forests, the mountains rising in the distance.
Late afternoon light pours through the glass, turning everything golden.
The furniture is sleek and modern—clean lines, neutral colors, everything precisely arranged.
A massive sectional sofa in charcoal gray.
A glass coffee table with nothing on it but a single orchid in a white pot.
Built-in shelves that hold books organized by color and height, creating a perfect gradient.
The kitchen is all white marble and stainless steel, with appliances that probably cost more than my monthly rent at my old apartment.
It's beautiful. It's also cold. Like a museum exhibit or a magazine spread—designed to be looked at, not lived in.
There are no personal touches, no photographs, no evidence that an actual human being spends time here.
No shoes kicked off by the door, no coffee mug left on the counter, no throw blanket draped carelessly over a chair.
Organized closets hiding emotional walls. That's what Ruby said about him. Looking at this place, I'm starting to understand exactly what she meant. This isn't a home. It's a fortress.
And then I notice the kitchen island.
Someone has set up a Valentine's spread that looks like it belongs in a food magazine.
A heart-shaped charcuterie board—actual heart-shaped, not even trying to be subtle—loaded with artisan cheeses in varying shades of cream and gold, cured meats arranged in perfect rosettes, fresh fruits still glistening with dewdrops, and crackers fanned out like playing cards.
Several bottles of wine stand at attention—expensive labels, I recognize some of them from the rare wine section at upscale restaurants, both reds and whites—alongside an assortment of gourmet chocolates in a crystal dish that catches the fading light.
Candles in elegant silver holders, unlit but waiting.
Rose petals scattered artfully across the white marble surface, a pop of red against all that pristine paleness.
My jaw actually drops.
This is... this is romantic. Genuinely, undeniably, achingly romantic. From the man who speaks in monosyllables and glares at everyone like they've personally offended him.
"Julian." I turn to look at him, genuinely shocked. "You did all this?"
His expression shutters immediately, walls slamming up so fast I can almost hear them. "No. I hired someone."