Chapter 5 : The price of Secrets
440 Words
The gala lights were blinding, but I couldn't stop looking at the dark figure by the exit. Mark was gone as quickly as he had appeared, leaving a cold trail of dread in my stomach.
"Daniella? You’re shaking," Julian’s voice broke through my panic. He pulled me slightly closer, his hand firm on my waist.
"It’s just the cameras," I lied, forcing a smile for a nearby photographer. "And maybe the cold."
"The car is waiting," Julian said, his eyes narrowing as if he could see right through my mask. He didn't say another word until we were shielded behind the tinted glass of his Maybach.
The silence was heavy. As the city blurred past us, Julian finally spoke. "Elena was right about one thing. My life is complicated. If you can’t handle a few reporters and an ex-girlfriend, you won’t last a week."
"It wasn't Elena," I snapped, the adrenaline finally winning over my fear. "And don't talk to me like I’m one of your employees, Julian. I’m playing my part. I’m the one wearing your diamond and taking the hits."
He leaned back, his silhouette dark against the city lights. "Then what is it? You’ve been distracted since we left the penthouse."
I hesitated. I should tell him about the red envelope. I should tell him Mark was at the gala. But if Julian knew Mark still had a hold on me, would he see me as a liability? Would he end the deal and leave my father to rot?
When we reached the penthouse, I stepped out of the car before the driver could even open the door. I headed straight for my room, but Julian’s voice stopped me at the top of the stairs.
"Daniella."
I turned. He was standing in the center of the marble floor, looking every bit like the king of a cold, glass empire.
"Rule number two," he reminded me, his voice dangerously low. "You answer when I speak. What are you hiding?"
"Nothing," I said, my heart hammering.
I retreated to my room and locked the door. I ran to the dresser and pulled out the red envelope, intending to burn it. But as I pulled the note out, I realized there was something else inside. A photo.
It was a picture of Julian Vane, three years ago, standing next to a man whose face had been scratched out with a black marker. Underneath, in Mark’s jagged handwriting, were four words:
*HE ISN'T YOUR SAVIOR.*
A heavy knock sounded on my door. "Daniella, open this door. Now."
It was Julian. And he sounded like a man who was done playing game.
- Writer
