The wolf in dad’s clothing

The penthouse living room had been transformed into a private atelier. Three assistants in black turtlenecks stood silently by racks of garment bags, but Julian dismissed them with a sharp wave of his hand. He wanted to do this himself.

He stood in the center of the room, holding two velvet boxes. He didn't look like the ruthless corporate raider who had decimated a rival firm that morning. He looked... patient.

"Leo. Mia. Come here," Julian called out, his voice dropping that terrifying boardroom octave to something softer.

The twins emerged from the hallway, still hesitant. Mia was clutching her tattered rabbit, and Leo was eyeing the floor-to-ceiling windows as if expecting a trap.

"Is it time to go?" Leo asked, stepping in front of his sister.

"Not yet," Julian said, sinking to one knee. He was now at eye-level with them, his expensive suit straining slightly at the thighs. "A Vance never walks into a room unprepared. And tomorrow night, we have a very important party. We need armor."

"Armor?" Mia’s eyes went wide. "Like a knight?"

"Better," Julian smirked, opening the first box. Inside lay a dress of pale, iridescent silk, the color of a sunrise. It was delicate, hand-stitched, and clearly cost more than the entire bakery Elara had left behind. "This is for you, Mia. It’s called 'The Dawn.' Because that’s what you are."

Mia gasped, her small hand reaching out to touch the fabric. "For me?"

"Only for you." Julian handed the box to her, then turned to Leo. He opened the second box to reveal a miniature tuxedo, midnight blue, perfectly tailored to match the one hanging in Julian’s own closet. "And for you, Leo. Because a King needs his Prince."

Leo frowned, looking at the suit. "I don't know how to tie a tie."

"Then I’ll teach you," Julian said simply. "Go with Mrs. Gable. Put them on. Then come out here and tell me if they fit. If a single thread itches, we burn it and start over. Deal?"

"Deal," Leo whispered, awe finally cracking his protective shell.

From the shadow of the hallway arch, Elara watched. Her arms were crossed tight over her chest, her fingernails digging into the fabric of her blouse.

She wanted to hate it. She wanted to march out there and scream that silk didn't make up for five years of absence. She wanted to tell him that he couldn't buy their love with velvet boxes.

But her throat felt tight.

She watched as Julian, the Ice King of Wall Street, patiently waited for a four-year-old’s approval. She saw the way his eyes truly softened when Mia giggled. It was the picture she had dreamed of five years ago, alone in a cold hospital room. He would have been a good father, a treacherous voice whispered in her mind. If he hadn't been a monster first.

"They’re beautiful, Mr. Julian," Mia chirped, running off with Mrs. Gable.

As the children disappeared, the warmth in the room evaporated instantly. Julian stood up, buttoning his jacket, the predator returning to his posture. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto the exact shadow where Elara was hiding.

"You can stop lurking, Elara," he said, his voice smooth and cold. "The show is over."

Elara stepped into the light, fixing a mask of disdain onto her face. She couldn't let him see that her heart was breaking for what could have been.

"It was quite a performance," she said, walking to the bar to pour herself water she didn't want, just to keep her hands busy. "Did you buy the 'Dad of the Year' script along with the suits? Or was that improvement?"

Julian walked toward her. He didn't rush. "I don't need a script to know what my children need. They need to feel proud. They need to feel like they belong in this world, not just visitors in it."

"They need a father, not a financier," Elara snapped, setting the glass down hard. "You think dressing them up makes you a parent? You don't know their allergies. You don't know that Leo is afraid of the dark or that Mia sings in her sleep. You’re playing house, Julian."

"Then teach me."

He was suddenly right there. He placed his hands on the marble counter on either side of her hips, boxing her in. He didn't touch her, but his body heat radiated through her clothes, suffocating and intoxicating all at once.

Elara’s breath hitched. She looked up, intending to shove him away, but his gaze pinned her.

"You hate me," Julian murmured, lowering his head until his lips were inches from her ear. "I can smell it on you. It’s bitter. But underneath that... you’re burning, Elara. You’re watching me with them, and you’re wondering what it would be like if we stopped fighting."

"I’m wondering when you’ll let us leave," she lied, her voice trembling.

"Liar," he whispered, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck. He inhaled deeply. "You want them to have this. You want them to have me. And God help you, you want me too. Even after everything I did."

"You destroyed me," she choked out, her hands gripping the lapels of his jacket to push him away but her fingers curled into the fabric instead, pulling him closer. It was a betrayal of her own body.

"And I will rebuild you," Julian vowed, his hand moving up to grip her jaw, forcing her to look at him. His thumb stroked her bottom lip. "I will cover you in diamonds and armor until no one can ever hurt you again. Not even me. But you have to stop fighting me, Elara. Submit to the role. Be my wife."

The air was heavy with five years of unsaid words and unspent passion. Elara’s lips parted. She was one second away from either slapping him or kissing him, and she honestly didn't know which one would destroy her faster.

Click.

The sound of the door latch was like a gunshot.

Elara jumped, shoving Julian back. He stumbled only a fraction, his composure resetting in a millisecond, though his eyes remained dark and dilated.

Matt stood in the doorway. The bodyguard’s face was stone, but his eyes darted between Julian’s flushed face and Elara’s heaving chest. He had seen too much.

"Am I interrupting, Sir?" Matt asked, his voice devoid of inflection.

"Yes," Julian growled, straightening his tie. "This better be a life-or-death situation, Matthias."

"It might be," Matt said, stepping fully into the room. He tapped the earpiece he was wearing. "Security at the lobby desk just radioed up. We have a 'Code Red' in the foyer."

Julian’s eyes narrowed. "Paparazzi?"

"No, Sir," Matt said, his gaze flickering briefly to Elara. "A woman. She bypassed the first checkpoint. She’s demanding to be let up."

Elara felt the blood drain from her face. "Is it the press?"

"Worse," Julian said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. He walked to the window, looking down at the ants crawling on the street below. "The press I can buy. But this..."

He turned back to Matthias. "Is she alone?"

“She’s alone and demanding to see you.”

Julian went still.

"Who is it?" Elara whispered, stepping forward, her maternal instinct overriding her fear of Julian. "Who is downstairs?"

Julian didn't answer her. He looked at Matt. "Lock down the elevators. Keep the children in the back room. If she sets one foot on this floor, you have authorization to use lethal force."

"Julian!" Elara grabbed his arm. "Who is it?"