Chapter 3: Setting boundaries

Julian’s question hung in the quiet living room, smooth as glass and cold as ice.

My fingers remained glued to the microscopic metal seam under the mahogany desk. My pulse hammered against my ribs, but I forced my face to stay completely blank. In my line of work, you learn to read wood like a book. Wood breathes, it ages, it warps. Metal doesn't. And 18th-century French artisans certainly didn't install seamless titanium alloys underneath hand-carved cherry and mahogany.

I slowly pulled my hand back, wiping my dusted palm against the thigh of my overalls. "Just checking the grain density," I said smoothly, turning around to face him. I kept my voice even, giving him nothing to read. "Old pieces like this swell if they're kept near large glass windows. The humidity off the bay will ruin the finish if we don't move it into a controlled room."

Julian didn't move an inch. His grey eyes narrowed slightly, tracking the subtle shift in my posture. He didn't ask about the wood density. He didn't care about the humidity. He just stared at me with that raw, terrifying intensity, assessing me like a high-value asset he was trying to figure out how to master.

"The desk stays where it is," Julian said, his voice dropping into a firm, non-negotiable tone. "And as for your schedule, you will work here exclusively from eight in the morning until six at night. Every single day until the restoration is complete."

I let out a dry, sharp laugh, folding my arms tightly over my chest. "Eight to six? Exclusive hours? I run a business, Mr. Vance. I have other clients, orders to fill, and a shop to maintain. I work on my own time."

"Not anymore," Julian replied calmly. He reached into his inner suit pocket, pulled out a heavy, platinum-engraved pen, and set it on the polished marble coffee table beside us. Next to it, he laid out a thick document. "That is your revised contract. Read clause four. You will cease all outside restoration work immediately."

I stepped over to the table and picked up the contract, scanning the bold text. Clause four laid out a complete lockdown on my professional life. In exchange, the financial figure written at the bottom of the page wasn't just double my annual income—it was triple. On top of that, he had added a personal driver, a private catering chef to prepare my meals while working in the penthouse, and a corporate black card for 'restoration supplies.'

He wasn't just hiring me. He was attempting to buy my entire life, package it up, and own every hour of my day.

"Is this a joke?" I asked, looking up from the paper and throwing it right back onto the marble table.

Julian tilted his head, watching me with a cold, corporate detachment that felt completely manufactured. "It is a standard exclusivity agreement, Maya. I am offering you financial security that most independent business owners only dream of. You won't have to scramble for rent, you won't have to chase down late-paying clients, and you certainly won't have to work out of a dusty warehouse."

He thought he was being generous. He thought throwing a pile of cash at a girl in splattered overalls would make her drop to her knees and say 'thank you, sir.’

A hot spark of anger ignited deep in my chest. "I don't need you to rescue me, Julian," I said, stepping right up into his personal space. I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, but I didn't back down an inch. "And I don't need your corporate golden handcuffs. My shop might be dusty, and I might scramble for rent, but everything in that building is mine. I don't answer to anyone. You can't buy my independence, no matter how many zeros you slap onto a piece of paper."

I expected his jaw to clench. I expected the ruthless titan to snap, to threaten to pull the offer, or to fire off some corporate legal threat to put me in my place. Powerful men like Julian Vance hated being told 'no.'

Instead, something entirely unexpected happened.

Julian stared down at me, his eyes widening slightly as my words hit him. The cold, business-like mask he was wearing completely shattered into a million pieces. A dark, electric spark flared in his dark grey eyes, and a slow, low chuckle rumbled deep inside his chest.

He didn't get angry. He looked like he got fascinated.

"You really don't give a damn about my money, do you?" he murmured, his voice turning low, raspy, and dangerously intimate.

"I care about my freedom," I shot back, keeping my tone razor-sharp. "So here are my terms, Mr. Vance. I work from ten to four. I leave when I want to leave. I keep my outside clients. And you keep your corporate black card and your private chef, because I pack my own lunch."

Julian took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the remaining distance between us until the front of his custom suit was almost brushing against the bib of my denim overalls. The scent of cedarwood and raw power hit me like a physical wave. My heart did a terrifying little flip in my chest, but I held my ground, glaring straight into his eyes.

"Ten to four is unacceptable for a project of this scale," he whispered, leaning down just enough so his breath brushed against the sensitive skin of my ear. "Nine to five. Final offer."

"Ten to four," I repeated stubbornly, lifting my chin. "Or you can find another restorer to figure out how to clean 200-year-old mahogany without destroying the finish."

Julian stared down at my lips, his chest rising and falling in heavy, deliberate breaths. The sheer emotion radiating off him was intoxicating, thick enough to cut with a knife. He looked at me not like a boss looking at an employee, but like a starving man staring at the one thing in the universe he couldn't control—and wanted more than life itself.

"Ten to four," Julian conceded softly, a dark, wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "You are the first person in ten years to renegotiate a contract with me, Maya Blue. And win."

"Get used to it," I muttered, stepping back to break the suffocating tension between us. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get my tools set up. I have work to do."

"By all means," Julian said, stepping aside and making a mock sweeping gesture with his hand. "The space is yours."

I grabbed my heavy leather tool bag and knelt beside the magnificent desk, pulling out my fine-grain scrapers, soft brushes, and natural oil solutions. I focused entirely on the wood, trying desperately to ignore the heavy weight of Julian's gaze burning into my back as he stood nearby, watching my every move like a hawk.

For two hours, the penthouse was quiet except for the soft scraping of my tools against the aged varnish. I worked methodically, slowly cleaning the outer edges of the desk. But my mind was running at a hundred miles an hour. Every time I brushed near the back panel, my fingers brushed over the area where that microscopic metallic seam was hidden.

Why would a billionaire have an electronic vault disguised as an 18th-century antique in the middle of his living room? And why hire an outside restorer who might stumble right on it?

At exactly three fift-five, I started packing up my tools. I wiped down my scrapers, capped my oil bottles, and stood up, stretching my aching back. Julian was standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, talking quietly into a sleek black smartphone. He ended the call the moment he saw me pick up my bag.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked, walking back over.

"It's four o'clock," I said, slinging the leather strap over my shoulder. "A deal's a deal."

Julian reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, glossy black keycard, holding it out toward me. "This gives you direct access to the private elevator and the penthouse. You won't need the driver to escort you tomorrow."

I hesitated, looking at the card, then reached out to take it from his hand. As my fingers brushed against his, a sudden shock of electricity zapped through my skin. Julian didn't let go of the card immediately. He held it firm, forcing me to look up into his dark, intense eyes.

"See you tomorrow at ten, Maya," he said smoothly.

I pulled the keycard from his grip, turned on my boot heel, and walked straight to the elevator. I pressed the button, stepped inside, and watched as the doors slowly slid shut, closing off the view of Julian standing in the center of his glass fortress, watching me leave.

I let out a long breath I didn't realize I was holding.

As the elevator plunged downward toward the garage, I slipped Julian's black keycard into the front pocket of my overalls. But as my fingers slid inside the pocket, they brushed against a small, hard piece of paper that hadn't been there when I arrived this morning.

I pulled it out.

It was a faded, folded white index card. Unfolding it under the bright elevator light, my breath caught cold in my throat.

Written in dark, hasty ink was a hand-drawn diagram of the very same 18th-century desk I had just been working on—complete with a tiny, hand-drawn star marking the exact location of the hidden electronic lock. And below the drawing, in familiar, scratchy handwriting I hadn't seen in five years, were three words: Don't trust him.

My heart slammed against my ribs as the elevator chimed, the doors sliding open to the dark, quiet garage.

It was my father's handwriting.