Chapter 4: The first crack

My breath rattled in my throat as I stared down at the white index card in my palm. Don't trust him. The jagged lettering, the tight loops on the T’s—it was undeniably my father’s handwriting.

My head spun back through the last few hours, searching frantically for how this card had gotten into my overalls. I had been wearing these exact clothes when I left my shop. Nobody had touched me on the drive over. But when I was setting up my tool bag at the desk, Julian had stepped uncomfortably close, his heavy presence overwhelming my senses as we bickered over my hours. Then, when I went to pack up, I had set my overalls' front strap down near the desk’s lower drawer frame to lift my heavy oil kit…

My eyes widened. The index card hadn't been slipped into my pocket by a ghost. It had been taped with old masking tape to the underside of the desk's secret compartment, right next to the electronic seam—hidden there years ago. When my hand swept under the lower panel while inspecting the wood, my knuckles had caught the brittle paper, dislodging it straight into my open front bib pocket without me even realizing it until now.

My father hadn't just built furniture; he was a brilliant tech engineer who vanished five years ago without a trace. And somehow, his past was physically woven into Julian Vance’s living room.

I crammed the card deep into my pocket, my heart hammering like a trapped bird as I walked out to the waiting sedan.

~~~

The next morning at nine fifty-eight, I swiped Julian’s black keycard at the private elevator. My hand was steady, but my stomach was a tangled mess of nerves. I was no longer just a restorer trying to pay rent; I was a woman walking straight into a gilded spiderweb.

When the elevator doors chimed open, the penthouse was quiet. Daylight flooded through the floor-to-ceiling glass, illuminating the cold white marble. Julian wasn't standing by the window today. The sprawling space was completely empty, giving the room an eerie, museum-like stillness.

I set my heavy leather tool bag on the floor next to the 18th-century mahogany writing desk. I didn't waste a second to start working. About few hours after working, the thoughts strucked me. Yesterday, I had felt the microscopic seam. Today, I needed to see it. I dropped to my knees, pulled out my small penlight, and angled the beam directly under the desk’s main frame.

I ran my index finger along the inner edge of the dark cherry trim. The craftsmanship was stunning—a masterclass in late 1700s French joinery. But as I flipped my penlight to a high-density UV beam, the truth slapped me in the face. Hidden beneath a microscopic layer of aged varnish were ultra-fine conductive wires, seamlessly inlaid into the grain of the wood like artificial veins. The antique wasn't just modified; it had been completely hollowed out and rebuilt from the inside out to house a state-of-the-art security system.

"Searching for something, Maya?"

I flinched, my head snapping up so fast my neck popped.

Julian was standing less than three feet away. He had walked across the plush rug so silently he might as well have been a ghost. He had ditched his suit jacket, wearing only a crisp white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing thick, muscular wrists.

"Jesus, Julian," I breathed, quickly killing the penlight and shoving it into my knee pocket as I stood up. "Do you make a habit of creeping up on people?"

Julian didn't apologize. He slowly closed the distance between us, his dark grey eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that made the air in the room suddenly feel impossibly thin.

"I noticed you came early," he said softly, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a sharp tremor straight down my spine. "By two minutes."

"I like to be prompt," I replied, standing my ground even as my heart hammered against my ribs. I folded my arms tightly over my chest, using my posture as a shield. "Especially when I'm working on a piece that isn't quite what it seems."

Julian’s gaze narrowed just a fraction, his icy composure shifting into something much darker, much more dangerous. "Is that so?"

"This desk, Mr Vance," I said, leaning back slightly against the edge of the mahogany wood. "It’s supposed to be an authentic 18th-century piece. But the wood underneath the lower trim has been altered. Someone routed out the interior frame using modern precision tools."

Julian didn't panic. He didn't even blink. Instead, he took another slow, deliberate step forward until he was standing directly in front of me, trapping me between his tall, imposing body and the edge of the heavy desk. The scent of cedarwood and heat rolled off him in waves, thick and intoxicating.

"I hired you because you're the best, Maya," he whispered, leaning down until his face was only inches from mine. "Not because I expected you to ask questions."

"I'm a restorer," I shot back, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts to sound tough. "My job is to know what's real and what's fake."

"And what do you think is real, Maya?"

Julian reached out, his long, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear. His touch was burning hot against my skin, sending an intense shockwave straight to my core. My breath hitched in my throat.

"I think..." I stammered, my mouth suddenly going completely dry as his gaze dropped down to my lips. "I think you're hiding something."

"I'm hiding a lot of things," Julian rumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark whisper.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned closer, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged breaths. The cold, ruthless titan society knew was completely gone, replaced by a man consumed by an overwhelming, terrifying desire. He looked at me as if I were the only solid object in his chaotic world—a sudden, wild fire he had no desire to put out.

My mind screamed at me to step away, to push his chest, to remember my father's warning index card sitting heavy in my pocket. Don't trust him.

But as Julian lowered his head, his warm breath fanning across my mouth, my body betrayed me. My hands gripped the edge of the wooden desk behind me, my heart pounding so loudly it echoed in my ears. I was completely paralyzed by the raw, magnetic pull between us. The sheer heat of him was intoxicating, threatening to melt every boundary I had spent my life building.

His lips hovered just a millimeter from mine. "Julian..." I breathed, the whisper barely escaping my throat.

He paused, his eyes searching mine with a desperate, hungry intensity. He was about to close the microscopic gap and kiss me—

Suddenly, the heavy doors of the private elevator chimed behind us, sliding open with a sharp, metallic hiss.

"Julian, the board is waiting on line one—" A sharp, feminine voice cut through the silent room like a blade. Eleanor Vale froze mid-step near the elevator, her sharp eyes locking onto the two of us pressed flush against the desk.

The spell shattered instantly.

I pushed against Julian's broad chest, stepping hard to the side to put three feet of space between us. My cheeks were burning, my blood roaring in my ears. I pulled a raspy breath into my lungs, staring at Julian as if he were a dangerous flame I had almost let burn me alive.

Julian turned slowly toward Eleanor, his grey eyes flashing with lethal fury at the interruption. But I didn't stick around to watch him tear his executive apart.

My hands were shaking as I grabbed a bottle of wood polish from my bag. I needed to get away from him, away from his heat, before I completely lost my head.

"I'll... I'll get back to work," I muttered, staring strictly down at the mahogany surface, refusing to meet his eyes.

Julian didn't answer Eleanor. He kept his dark, intense gaze pinned on me, his chest heaving slightly as if he had just lost a war within himself. As Eleanor nervously cleared her throat by the elevator, I turned my attention to the desk's side drawer to hide my flushed face. My shaky hands pulled the brass drawer handle out to inspect the joinery.

The drawer didn't slide open.

Instead, a tiny faint mechanical click echoed from deep within the wood, and a small, hidden panel at the very back of the desk popped open half an inch, exposing a glowing blue digital key slot.

And resting right beside the glowing blue light was a tiny silver pendant engraved with a pair of familiar initials: M.B. It was my mother's necklace—the one she was wearing the night my father disappeared.