Chapter 5

The house doctor cleans and wraps my hand.

I sit in the bath until the water goes cold, then sleep like the dead.

At six in the morning, my phone rings.

Marco. My floor manager at The Vescari.

"Miss Vescari. Julian didn't show again."

"We've got a private VIP client from Dubai dropping seven figures in the Pearl Room at eleven, and Julian's phone has been off since last night."

There was a time when this happened every other week.

Julian sulked.

Julian disappeared.

Julian shut off his phone and left everyone else to clean up the mess.

And I let him.

I ate the loss, sent my assistant to keep the client happy, and had Marco cover the floor.

Everyone in the Vescari knew Julian Cross was difficult.

Everyone also knew I let him get away with it.

Not anymore.

"Let him stay missing," I say. "From now on, if he messes up with something, he fixes it himself. Don't cover for him."

"Yes, Miss Vescari."

I hang up and pour myself a coffee.

---

Sure enough, without me keeping him in line, Julian starts enjoying his freedom.

He flies Chloe from one island to the next, and within hours, their photos are everywhere.

Society pages. Gossip magazines.

Chloe in white linen on a rented Riva in St. Barts, her hand resting on Julian's chest.

Julian with his fingers buried in her hair.

The two of them clinking glasses in a private cabana, smiling like they don't have a care in the world.

The headlines are exactly what I expect.

[Julian Cross Spotted with The Vescari Heiress's Stepsister After Sicily Incident]

[Has the Vescari Heiress Finally Lost Her Golden Boy?]

[Insiders Say Julian Cross Felt "Trapped" Under The Vescari Heiress's Control]

They don't know that in that ambush, Julian stepped on my hand, took my helicopter, and left me there to die.

They don't know I'm only three years older than him.

They also don't know I'm not exactly hurting for attention.

Men with better names, cleaner books, and more money than Julian Cross have been trying to get on my calendar for years.

But the story has always been his doing.

His silence. His hints.

Those wounded little pauses in front of people who knew exactly how to turn them into print.

Once, during a society interview, someone asked him about me.

Julian only lowered his eyes, went quiet for a few seconds, then said softly, "Some things aren't really a choice."

One sentence. That was all it took to make me the villain.

The rich woman who bought him. Owned him. Controlled him.

The Vescari heiress with a checkbook for a heart.

And Julian never corrected them.

Not once.

I asked him once why he wouldn't set the record straight.

He looked at me, cold as marble, and said, "How exactly am I supposed to correct it, Moira?"

"Should I tell them you bought me out of a basement?"

"Should I announce that I'm only breathing because you wrote a check?"

"You want the whole world to know I'm your charity case. My pride means nothing to you. Say it."

I turn my glass.

A man who would've been dead years ago if not for me, lecturing me about pride.

I was too generous with Julian.

I let him forget what he was before I touched him.

My phone buzzes.

Luca Vancy.

"Do I start my job today?"

I tell him to come.

---

An hour later, Luca walks into my study in dark jeans and a plain black Henley.

The simplest clothes a man can wear, and he still looks like trouble.

His left shoulder is taped under his shirt where the steel beam caught him.

"Everything checks out," I say.

A corner of his mouth lifts.

"Come closer," I say.

He crosses the room slowly. Stops two feet away.

I lean back in my chair and watch him.

"Can I sign on as your bodyguard now?" Luca asks.

I crook a finger at him.

"That depends," I say. "I'll have to test you myself first."

Luca smiles, "What kind of test, Miss Vescari?"

I stand, walk around the desk, and stop in front of him.

He doesn't move.

I hook two fingers into the collar of his shirt and tug him down just enough that his breath brushes my mouth.

"The kind that tells me how well you follow orders."

His gaze drops to my lips for half a second, then comes back to my eyes.

"And if I pass?"

"Then you stay." I hold his gaze. "How many before me?"

"If I said none," he says, "would you believe me?"

"No."

"None," he says anyway. "I don't give myself to people I don't want."

"Upstairs?" I say.

"Yes, ma'am."