CHAPTER 7: Caught in the Act

The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded my veins. I scrambled to pick up the photo from the floor. My fingers fumbled with the glossy paper.

"Vivian?" Julian’s voice was closer now. He was walking through the foyer.

I grabbed the photo and shoved it desperately into the waistband of my pajama shorts, pulling the hem of his oversized t-shirt down to cover the bulge.

I spun around just as Julian rounded the corner into the dining room.

He stopped.

His gray eyes landed on me instantly. Then, they drifted to the chair where his jacket lay, and finally back to my face. He didn't speak. He just watched me with that terrifying, predatory stillness.

I tried to breathe normally, but my heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I was sure he could hear it.

"You look pale," he said. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

He walked toward me, his strides long and measured. The sound of his dress shoes on the marble floor echoed in the silent penthouse.

"I... I felt sick," I stammered, leaning back against the dining table for support. "Morning sickness. I was just heading to the kitchen for water."

Julian stopped inches from me. He was too close. I could smell the fresh rain on his clothes and the faint, metallic scent of the city.

"Is that so?" he murmured.

His gaze dropped to the jacket on the chair.

"And why were you standing over my jacket, Vivian?"

My blood ran cold. He noticed everything.

"I wasn't," I lied, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I bumped into the chair when I got dizzy. I was just straightening it."

Julian studied my face for a long, agonizing moment. He was looking for the lie. He was dissecting my expression, searching for a micro-expression of guilt.

"You are a terrible liar," he said softly.

He reached out.

I flinched, expecting him to grab me, to demand the photo back.

Instead, his hand brushed my cheek. His thumb traced the line of my jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle, but possessive.

" You are trembling."

"I told you," I whispered, fighting the urge to pull away. "I'm not feeling well."

"Or perhaps," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble, "you are nervous because you know you are somewhere you shouldn't be."

My breath hitched. Did he know?

He stepped back, releasing me. He picked up his jacket from the chair.

I held my breath as he slid his arms into the sleeves. He adjusted the collar. Then, casually, he patted the inside pocket.

The pocket where the photo used to be.

He frowned.

His hand patted the pocket again. He paused. The air in the room seemed to vanish.

He slowly turned his head to look at me. His eyes were no longer just cold; they were calculating.

"Vivian," he said, his voice deceptively calm.

"Yes?" I squeaked.

He took a step toward me. "Did you see anything fall out of this jacket?"

"No," I said quickly. Too quickly. "Why? Did you lose something?"

He stared at me. The silence stretched until it was suffocating. I gripped the edge of the marble table behind me, the sharp corner digging into my palms. The photo in my waistband felt like it was burning a hole in my skin.

If he searched me, I was dead. If he found the photo labeled Target, he would know that I knew. And if he was the one who killed my mother... he wouldn't let me leave this apartment alive.

Julian took another step. He was right in my personal space now. He placed a hand on the table on either side of me, trapping me in a cage of his arms.

He leaned down until his nose brushed mine.

"I don't like thieves, Vivian," he whispered. "And I don't like liars. If I find out you are keeping secrets from me..."

He let the threat hang in the air, unfinished and terrifying.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn't break eye contact. He let it ring twice before he finally pulled back, breaking the trance.

He pulled the phone out and glanced at the screen. His jaw tightened.

"We will finish this conversation later," he said, his voice clipped.

He turned and walked toward the elevator without looking back.

"Rest, Mrs. Thorne. You look like you have seen a ghost."

The elevator doors closed, swallowing him whole.

As soon as he was gone, my legs gave out. I slid down to the floor, gasping for air. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely retrieve the photo from my waistband.

I looked at it again. The smiling face of my mother. The word Target.

Julian Thorne wasn't just my husband. He wasn't just my savior.

I looked at the forbidden door down the hallway.

He was the enemy. And I was trapped in his castle.