Julian stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, a glass of scotch in hand, but his mind was elsewhere.
Emily.
She had been doing better—Cecile’s presence had helped—but he still saw it in her eyes. The weight of the past. The fear she tried so hard to hide.
He turned when he heard her soft footsteps.
She was wrapped in one of his sweaters, her auburn curls tumbling over her shoulders. She looked fragile, yet there was a quiet strength in the way she carried herself.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
Emily hesitated, then shook her head. “Not really.”
Julian studied her, debating whether to press. But when she crossed the room and curled up on the couch, he made his decision.
He set his glass down and sat beside her. “Talk to me.”
She looked down, fingers tracing the fabri
