Chapter 5
“Eavesdropping is a violation of section four of the cohabitation rider,” Julian said, his voice rough and rasping from disuse.
Ethan pushed the door open the rest of the way, crossing his arms over his chest to hide the sudden tension in his shoulders. “I was getting water. It’s hard to sleep when the air in this place tastes like nitrogen.”
Julian leaned back in his ergonomic leather chair, watching Ethan through the shadows. The NYU t-shirt clung to his chest, emphasizing the lean, defined muscle beneath. Ethan remembered tracing the curve of Julian’s collarbone in the dark of their old bedroom, listening to the steady, unhurried beat of Julian’s heart. Now, Julian looked at him as if he were an unannounced auditor from the SEC.
“There’s bottled Pellegrino in the Sub-Zero,” Julian said. “Take as much as you need.”
Ethan didn’t move toward the kitchen. Instead, his gaze dropped to the stack of binders on the desk. “What are you working on at two in the morning? Vanguard’s quarterly tax fraud?”
“Corporate governance,” Julian said smoothly, closing the nearest binder with a quiet thud. “The merger requires extensive balance sheet reconciliations.”
“Since when does an executive director of creative development reconcile balance sheets?”
“Since Marcus Sterling made it a prerequisite for releasing Vance Media’s escrow grant.” Julian rose from the chair. He towered over the desk, the casual t-shirt doing nothing to diminish the sheer, imposing presence of his frame. He walked around the black desk, coming to a halt barely an arm’s length from where Ethan stood in the doorway. “You want your fourteen people paid on Friday, Ethan? Then let me do my job.”
The proximity was suffocating.
Julian smelled of stale espresso, cold night air, and that infuriating, indelible cedarwood soap. Ethan could see the tiny pulse point fluttering at the base of Julian’s neck—fast, far too fast for a man pretending to be in total control.
“Why that shirt?” Ethan asked, his voice dropping into a register that was dangerously low, stripped of its protective sarcasm.
Julian’s eyes flickered down to his own chest, then back to Ethan’s face. For a fleeting second, the granite cracked. A flicker of something desolate, almost desperate, passed through his grey eyes before he looked away.
“It was at the top of the drawer,” Julian said coldly.
“You threw away every notebook, every draft, every hard drive from Brooklyn,” Ethan whispered, stepping an inch closer, refusing to let him retreat into the corporate fog. “You had a courier deliver a non-disclosure agreement to my front door while I was still trying to call your voicemail. But you kept a twenty-dollar crew shirt?”
Julian’s jaw tightened until the tendons stood out against his neck. He didn’t back away. If anything, he leaned down slightly, closing the remaining space between them until Ethan could feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
“You don’t know anything about what I kept, Ethan,” Julian murmured, the words vibrating with a dark, dangerous undertone that made Ethan’s breath hitch in his throat. “And you’d be wise not to ask.”
Ethan’s pulse hammered against his ribs. His fingers twitched, an overwhelming, treacherous urge clawing through his chest—the desire to grab the faded collar of that shirt, to drag Julian down, to kiss him until the corporate lies tore open, or to hit him until he bled. The air between their mouths grew heavy, electric with three years of unresolved fury and unspeakable longing.
Julian’s gaze dropped to Ethan’s lips. His pupils dilated in the gloom, swallowing the slate-grey of his irises.
For a heartbeat, neither of them breathed.
Then, Julian stepped back. The cold rushed into the space between them like seawater flooding a breached hull.
“Go to bed, Ethan,” Julian said, his tone flat and level once more, the wall firmly back in place. “We have an eight-thirty car.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Julian turned back to the workstation, his fingers resting on the mouse, waiting for Ethan to leave.
Ethan clenched his fists, turned on his heel, and walked out into the dark.
***
The doorbell didn’t chime; it chimed through the integrated Crestron system with a soft, synthetic sequence of tones at eleven the following morning.
Ethan was sitting at the granite dining slab, nursing a mug of black coffee while reviewing the shooting script for Vance Media’s postponed indie project. He had refused to wear the designer cashmere sweater Clara had picked out, opting instead for a charcoal henley that felt slightly more like his own skin.
Julian emerged from the study, fully armored in a crisp navy bespoke suit, his tie knotted with geometric perfection. He tapped the wall panel by the entrance.
The video feed blinked on, showing Marcus Sterling standing in the private vestibule of the elevator bank, flanked by two burly men in plain black suits who had the unmistakable bearing of corporate security contractors.
Julian’s shoulders stiffened. Only someone who had spent half a decade watching Julian direct actors would have noticed the infinitesimal shift in his balance—the subtle dropping of his center of gravity, like a fighter bracing for an impact.
“Marcus,” Julian said through the intercom, his voice adopting that polished, deferential sheen. “We weren’t expecting you until the board lunch.”
“Just an informal drop-in, Julian,” Sterling’s voice purred through the high-fidelity speakers. “To check on our star investments.”
Julian unlocked the door.
Marcus Sterling stepped into the penthouse as if he owned the title deed. He was a man in his late fifties with silver hair swept back from a tanned, aristocratic face, wearing an unstructured cashmere blazer over an open-collared silk shirt. He exuded the casual, terrifying confidence of a predator that had never encountered a creature higher on the food chain.
His cold, pale eyes swept the stark living room, lingering on Ethan at the dining slab before settling on Julian.
“Magnificent view,” Sterling said, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling glass without waiting for an invitation. He tapped his signet ring against the reinforced glass. “Though a bit exposed, don’t you think? Clara tells me the telephotos across the street have logged over six thousand exposures since sunrise.”
“The PR narrative requires visibility, Marcus,” Julian said, closing the door behind him and remaining standing by the entrance, watchful and still.
“Visibility, yes. Vulnerability, no.” Sterling turned, his gaze fixing on Ethan. He offered a warm, patrician smile that didn’t reach his shark-like eyes. “Ethan. It’s an honor to finally have you in the Vanguard family.”
Ethan didn’t stand. He held his coffee mug with both hands, meeting Sterling’s gaze with unblinking hostility. “I’m an independent contractor, Mr. Sterling. The term *family* implies shared custody, not an involuntary acquisition.”
Sterling let out a soft, appreciative laugh. “Spirited. I like that. Creative fire is what made Vance Media so... troublesome for our distribution division over the years.” He strolled over to the dining table, resting his manicured hands on the edge of the granite. “Julian told me you were difficult to manage, but I assured him that every artist has an operating budget. Twelve million dollars is quite a handsome line of credit, Ethan. More than enough to keep your little boutique running for another decade.”
