Breaking Point

Julian's POV

​The hum of the engine should be a soothing sound, a quiet punctuation to an exhausting evening. Instead, the silence in the back of the car feels heavy, charged.

​My heart is beating wildly against my chest, a frantic rhythm that tells me something is horribly wrong.

​I stare out the tinted window, yet my mind refuses to let me focus on the passing trees and street signs.

​The memory of that slammed door rings in my ears, but more than that, it’s Logan’s parting shot that’s eating away at me: She hasn't told you, has she? You're in for a surprise.

​What could she possibly be hiding? What history does she share with a predator like Logan Benson that makes her look like a deer caught in headlights?

​I reach up, dragging a hand over my face, letting out a low, frustrated breath. For the last three years, Clare has been the most stable, unshakeable presence in my life. She knows my schedule before I do, handles my worst moods without blinking, and keeps my multi-million-dollar empire from crashing down around my ears. I thought I knew everything about her.

​And yet, tonight I walked into her apartment building and saw the damp walls, the peeling wallpaper, the suffocating reality of a life she’s been fighting to escape. And worse, I realized she's carrying the ghost of a secret that has her terrified.

​I remember the way she used to shrink back into herself, trying desperately to make herself small, as if apologizing for taking up space in the world. The way, she always used to wear high-collared shirts in the first year, even when it was 90° outside, the way she used to flinch if someone moved too quickly or if a loud sound echoed through the building.

​I pull out my phone with a curse, and dial an FBI acquaintance of mine. The phone rings three times before he eventually answers.

​I don't waste time with pleasantries, nor do I wait for him to speak.

​“I need you to tell me everything you can find out about Logan Benson and Clare Hayes,” I demand as soon as he picks up.

​“Clare Hayes? Isn't that your secretary?” John asks, and I close my eyes for a second to stop myself from saying something I'll regret later.

​“I do not pay you to ask questions, John. I want to know everything you can find out about them. Now,” I hiss.

​“Logan Benson and Clare Hayes,” John repeats as he types on his computer, the sound of his fingertips punching the keys echoing deafeningly in the silence.

​“Fuck…” I hear him gasp, and my heart stops beating for a second.

​“What is it?” I bark. “John, what did you find?”

​“You're not going to like this at all, Julian. She has a restraining order against him, and she went to the hospital fifteen times in the last two years they were dating.”

​The blood drains completely from my face, and my knees buckle, yet John continues.

​“A broken wrist, a broken nose, a concussion, bruises…. It says she fell, that she’s clumsy.” He stops for a beat. “Julian, are you still with me?”

​Without responding, I hang up the phone.

​"Turn around," I snap suddenly.

​The driver’s eyes flash in the rearview mirror, wide with shock. "Sir?"

​"You heard me," I say, my voice dropping into that dark, dangerous register that usually makes board members tremble. "Turn the car around. Take me back to her building."

​"Mr. Vance, it's late, and..."

​"I don't care if it's the middle of the night," I bark, leaning forward, the fierce, suffocating surge of protectiveness overriding every bit of common sense I possess. "Drive."

​The car makes a sharp, illegal U-turn in the middle of the wet street, tires hissing against the asphalt as it accelerates back toward the decaying brick complex.

​Every second that ticks by feels like a countdown. A heavy, sickening dread starts to pool in my chest. I’ve spent my entire life controlling variables, anticipating threats, buying my way out of danger. But right now, staring out at the dimly lit streets, I realize I’m entirely unprepared for the panic clawing at my throat. It’s not about the board of directors anymore. It’s not about the hostile takeover. It’s about the fact that I left a broken, terrified woman alone in a vulnerable place with a predator who looked at her like she was his property.

I am the CEO of this company, I had told myself earlier. I control everything.

​So why do I feel like I'm about to lose the only thing that actually matters?

​The car slows to a halt outside her building. I don't wait for the driver to open the door. I shove it open myself, stepping out into the damp night air, and stride toward the entrance.

​The front door of the complex is propped open by a rusted brick, a pathetic excuse for security. I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the burn in my thighs, my heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against my ribs.

​When I reach her landing, I don't knock. I don't announce myself.

​I raise my fist and pound hard against the wood of her apartment door.

​"Clare!" I demand, my voice echoing down the derelict hallway. "Open the door. Right now."

​Silence.

​A cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck. I bang on the door again, harder this time, the wood rattling in its frame.

​"Clare! If this is a joke, it's gone too far. Open the damn door. Now!"

​Still nothing.

​I press my ear to the door. Faintly, muffled through the heavy barrier, I catch the sound of a scuffle, a thud as a body hits the ground, and a low, arrogant laugh that makes every drop of blood in my body run ice cold.

​Logan.

​The rational part of my brain, the cold, calculating CEO who built an empire, shatters into a million pieces.

​With a frantic urgency I haven't felt since I was a child, I pull back, plant the heel of my Italian leather shoe against the lock, and kick the door in with every ounce of raw, unadulterated fury I have left.

.