Chapter 23 Penthouses And Paper Walls #2
"Really?" I take a step closer to the spread, examining the careful arrangement.
The way the colors complement each other—the deep burgundy of the wine echoing the rose petals, the gold of the cheese matching the chocolate wrappers.
The attention to detail in every placement. "You spent money on little old me?"
His flush deepens—still subtle, but definitely there, creeping up from his collar. "No!"
"Julian." I press a hand to my chest in mock surprise. "You shouldn't have. All this effort, just for a fake Omega? I'm touched. Truly. Deeply."
He grumbles something unintelligible, his ears now distinctly pink. "I'm going to the washroom," he announces abruptly, and practically flees the room.
Ha. Got him.
The grumpy investor who can intimidate Uber drivers with a single eyebrow raise—completely undone by a little teasing about his secret romantic gesture. This is the most emotion I've seen from Julian since I met him, and I'm absolutely going to remember it forever.
I take the opportunity to explore the space while he's gone.
The penthouse is larger than it first appeared—a wine cellar visible through a glass door, a hallway that presumably leads to bedrooms, a home office with more monitors than seems necessary for one person.
Everything is immaculate. Everything is controlled.
I drift toward the windows, drawn by the view. Oakridge Hollow looks almost magical from up here—the snow-covered streets, the twinkling lights just beginning to come on as evening approaches, the mountains turning purple in the fading light. It's peaceful. Beautiful.
And then I see them.
Down on the street below, a figure stands on the sidewalk, looking up at the penthouse. I can't make out details from this height—just a dark coat, a shape that might be human, a face tilted upward. They're not moving. Just... watching.
What the—
I press closer to the glass, trying to make out features. Male? Female? Young? Old? The distance is too great, even though this building isn't that tall compared to city skyscrapers. All I can see is the shape of them, the stillness, the unsettling way they're staring directly at this window.
A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the winter weather.
I blink, and when I look again, the figure is gone. Vanished. Like they were never there at all.
Did I imagine that? Was someone actually there? Or am I being paranoid after all those threatening messages?
Come home, or we'll bring you.
You can't hide forever.
My family's words echo in my mind, but I push them away.
I refuse to let their threats poison this moment.
Whoever that was—if they were even real—they're gone now.
And I'm here, in Julian's beautiful penthouse, about to share a Valentine's meal with an Alpha who went to far more effort than he'd ever admit.
"Everything alright?"
I turn to find Julian watching me from the hallway entrance. His expression is guarded, but there's a flicker of concern beneath the surface—quickly masked, but I caught it.
"Fine," I say, forcing a smile. "Just admiring the view. It's incredible."
He studies me for a moment longer, like he doesn't quite believe me, but doesn't push. Instead, he gestures toward the kitchen island. "Come. Eat. The food won't stay at optimal temperature indefinitely."
Optimal temperature. Such a Julian way to phrase it.
I settle onto one of the sleek barstools, the leather cold against my jeans. Julian moves around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, uncorking a bottle of wine and pouring two glasses without asking my preference. Red, deep and rich, probably costing more than my entire wardrobe.
"Thank you," I say, accepting the glass. "For all this. It's... really beautiful."
He makes a noncommittal sound, neither accepting nor deflecting the compliment.
An idea strikes me. "Would you want some coffee? To go with dessert later?"
Julian pauses, considering. His expression shifts through several micro-emotions—surprise, consideration, something that might be longing. "Fine," he says finally. "Whatever you made that morning you were at Tank's house."
I grin, feeling that familiar spark of confidence that comes when I'm in my element. "So you did like it."
"No," he says immediately, too quickly.
My grin spreads wider. "Julian. You're asking me to make it again. That means you liked it."
"It was... adequate." He refuses to meet my eyes, suddenly very interested in arranging cheese on a small plate. "I simply want to compare it to my memory. For quality control purposes."
Quality control purposes. This man is going to be the death of me.
I slide off the barstool and move to examine his coffee setup. It's impressive, naturally—a high-end espresso machine, a burr grinder, beans that look freshly roasted. Everything I need to recreate the lavender honey oat milk latte I made him to soothe his irritation.
I lose myself in the process. This is where I belong—measuring beans with precision, grinding them to the perfect consistency, listening to the machine hum and hiss as it works its magic.
The familiar motions settle something anxious in my chest. The scent of fresh espresso fills the pristine kitchen, warm and grounding, a comforting contrast to all this cold perfection.
Coffee has always been my safe space. The one thing I'm genuinely, undeniably good at. The one area where my confidence doesn't waver, where I don't second-guess myself into paralysis.
"I don't mean to be so..." Julian's voice interrupts my focus. When I glance over, he's staring at his wine glass, jaw tight, fingers tracing the stem in that repetitive motion I've noticed before. "Irrational."
I pause my work, giving him my full attention. This feels important—Julian voluntarily offering information about himself, without deflection or sarcasm. Without being pushed or prodded.
"What do you mean?"
He's quiet for a long moment. The espresso machine hisses softly behind me. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the last of the daylight fades into twilight, painting the mountains in shades of purple and indigo.
"I was betrothed once," he says finally, the words clipped and careful, like each one costs him something to speak. "An arranged match. My family's doing—they wanted to secure certain business connections, and I was the currency they chose to spend. The dutiful son, sold off to cement a merger."
Currency. Like me. Like what my family tried to do with me. We have more in common than I realized.
"It ended in betrayal." His grip on the wine glass tightens, knuckles going white.
"She was feeding information to a competitor the entire time.
Stock positions, investment strategies, things I'd shared in confidence because I thought—" He stops, jaw working like he's physically preventing the next words from escaping.
"It doesn't matter what I thought. The point is, I was used.
Manipulated. And I didn't see it coming until the damage was already done.
Until my reputation was nearly destroyed. "
I abandon the espresso machine entirely, moving back to the island to face him properly. His scent has shifted—the usual crisp cologne overlaid with something sharper now. Anxiety. Old pain. The bitter edge of memories that still haven't healed.
"Julian..."
"I built everything I have from nothing," he continues, not looking at me.
"My family's fortune was supposed to be my heritage.
My foundation. Instead, they used it as leverage to control me, and when I refused to be controlled, they cut me off entirely.
Everything I've accomplished—the investments, the modeling contracts, all of it—I did alone.
Without their help. Without anyone's help. "
That explains so much. The obsessive control. The pristine penthouse with no personal touches. The walls so high you can barely see over them. He built himself a fortress because the alternative was being vulnerable again. Being hurt again.
"It made things isolating," he admits, his voice quieter now. "Building success while watching others rely on the heritage their families actually blessed them with. Knowing I should have had that support but was denied it because I refused to be their puppet."
The candles on the island remain unlit, but the fading light through the windows casts everything in soft shadows. Intimate despite the sterile surroundings.
"I never want to be in a situation where I can be taken advantage of again," Julian says, finally meeting my eyes.
"That's why I'm the way I am. That's why I—" He gestures vaguely at the immaculate penthouse, the controlled environment, everything.
"The only thing our pack has failed at is finding an Omega who wouldn't do exactly what she did.
Who wouldn't see us as marks to be exploited. "
He shrugs, the motion almost resigned. "This arrangement helps both of us. And though you're benefitting from it, it's not an out-of-balance exchange that makes me too paranoid over your existence. You need protection. We need an Omega for professional reasons. The transaction is clear."
Transaction. He's trying so hard to keep this clinical. To keep me at arm's length by reducing what we have to an exchange of services.
But he also threw water at an Uber driver who was rude to me. And made—or hired someone to make—a heart-shaped charcuterie board.
Those aren't the actions of someone who sees this as purely transactional.
I nod slowly, processing everything he's shared. "I understand. I do. And I appreciate you telling me this."
He nods back, sharp and brief, like he's already regretting his vulnerability.
"Can I ask you something?"
His guard goes up immediately—I can see it happen, the walls reconstructing behind his eyes. But he doesn't say no.