The Gambit of Us

Episode 3: The Cold Pocket

Julian’s chest seized, the air locked tight in his lungs.

What Leo found out about ME?

He stared at the glowing screen of the burner phone, the harsh white light casting sharp shadows across his face. The message flickered once before disappearing completely, self-destructing into a blank screen.

His hands trembled violently. Was this a trap? A mind game set up by Damian to test his loyalty? Or was someone else watching them from the shadows, playing a far more dangerous game?

Julian glanced toward the closed master bedroom door. Silence stretched through the suite, heavy and suffocating.

Look in his coat pocket.

If Julian wanted to survive this golden cage, he couldn't afford to be a helpless victim. He needed leverage.

Holding his breath, Julian slid the burner phone into his trousers and crept toward the entryway where Damian had hung his charcoal-grey suit jacket on the coat rack. Every soft rustle of his own clothes sounded like a thunderclap in the quiet room.

He reached the jacket. His fingers brushed against the smooth, ultra-expensive cashmere.

Come on, Julian. Move.

He slipped his hand into the left outer pocket. Empty. He checked the right outer pocket. Nothing but a slick leather cardholder.

Sweat beaded on the nape of Julian’s neck. He slid his hand into the hidden interior breast pocket. His fingertips brushed against a thin, folded piece of stiff, laminated paper.

Just as he pinched the edge to pull it out—

Click.

The lock on the master bedroom door disengaged.

Julian’s heart slammed into his throat. In one fluid, frantic motion, he jammed the paper back into the pocket, turned on his heel, and threw his body onto the velvet sofa, pulling his coat over his shoulders just as the bedroom door swung open.

Damian stood in the doorway. He had stripped off his dress shirt, wearing only dark silk lounge trousers. His broad chest, carved like marble, glistened under the dim hallway light, but what caught Julian’s eye was the jagged, deep scar running diagonally across his left ribs.

Damian’s dark, sharp eyes swept over the room, instantly locking onto Julian, who was lying unnaturally still on the sofa with his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

"You're loud," Damian said, his voice low, gravelly, and thick with sleep. He walked slowly into the lounge, his bare feet making no sound against the thick rug. "I thought architects were supposed to be disciplined."

Julian forced himself to look irritated, rolling over to face the back of the couch. "It’s hard to sleep when my kidnapper keeps the temperature cold enough to freeze meat. Go back to bed, Cross."

Damian stopped right beside the sofa, his massive frame towering over Julian. The heat radiating off Damian’s skin bled through the dark, chilled air, along with the intoxicating scent of cedarwood and faint sea salt.

For a long, agonizing second, Damian didn't move. Julian held his breath, praying the man couldn't hear the deafening pounding of his pulse.

Suddenly, Damian reached down.

Julian flinched, instinctively bracing for a strike, but Damian simply grabbed the heavy velvet throw blanket from the back of the armchair and tossed it over Julian’s shivering shoulders, covering him to the chin.

Julian blinked in complete shock, staring up at his captor.

Damian’s eyes flickered with a dark, complex emotion—a brief crack in his frozen armor that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Don't get sick," Damian said coldly, turning around. "An invalid is useless to me at tomorrow’s board meeting."

"Damian," Julian blurted out before he could stop himself.

Damian paused, looking back over his bare shoulder. "What?"

"The scar on your ribs," Julian whispered, his blue eyes searching Damian's face. "Is that... from the night your brother died?"

Damian’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked beneath his skin. His eyes turned black as pitch, radiating a lethal, suffocating aura.

"Get some sleep, Vance," Damian snapped, his tone laced with venom. "Before I give you a matching set."

He retreated into the bedroom, slamming the door shut with a heavy thud. The lock engaged with a definitive, mechanical click.

Julian let out a shaky breath, curling tight beneath the warm throw blanket. The scent of Damian was trapped in the fabric, swirling around Julian's senses, maddeningly soft against his skin.

He pulled the blanket higher, his mind spinning into chaos. Damian was cruel, ruthless, and terrifying... but he had also covered him. He looked at Julian like an enemy, yet touched him like something precious he was afraid to break.

What are you hiding, Damian Cross?

8:00 AM — Cross Holdings Headquarters.

The glass-and-steel skyscraper soared into the clouds, an empire built on ruthless acquisitions and infinite wealth.

Julian walked two steps behind Damian through the bustling executive lobby. Dressed in a tailored navy suit provided by Damian’s personal stylist, Julian looked every bit the high-end executive, though he felt like a sacrificial lamb being led to the alter.

Employees bowed as Damian passed, clearing a wide path in absolute, terrified silence.

As they stepped into the private executive elevator, the doors began to glide shut—until a hand suddenly blocked them.

"Hold the lift!" a smooth, cheerful voice called out.

A tall, handsome man with amber eyes, honey-blonde hair, and a dazzling smile stepped into the elevator. He wore a crisp beige suit and carried a sleek tablet.

Julian caught his breath. It was Marcus Vance—his half-brother, his father’s favored son, and the man who had always tried to destroy Julian’s career out of sheer jealousy.

Marcus’s eyes widened as he noticed Julian standing beside Damian. A wicked, arrogant sneer instantly spread across Marcus's face.

"Well, well, well," Marcus drawled, stepping closer to Julian. "Look what the cat dragged in. I heard Dad’s little golden boy was missing, but I never guessed you’d end up on your knees begging Mr. Cross for a lifeline."

Julian’s eyes narrowed into cold steel. "Keep my name out of your mouth, Marcus. I don't recall asking for your opinion."

"Oh, sweet brother," Marcus chuckled, turning to Damian with a fake, submissive smile. "Mr. Cross, I hope he isn't causing you trouble. Julian always was weak. If you need someone to manage the Vance assets after we finalize the takeover, I’m more than willing to—"

BANG!

Damian’s hand shot out, grabbing Marcus by the throat and slamming him violently against the elevator’s mirror wall. The glass cracked under the force.

Marcus gasped, his face instantly turning red as his tablet clattered to the floor.

"Listen to me very carefully, Marcus," Damian purred, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly pitch as he tightened his grip around Marcus's windpipe. "Julian is the exclusive Chief Architect of Cross Holdings. His name, his mind, and his presence belong solely to me."

Damian leaned closer, his dark eyes gleaming with unbridled malice.

"If you ever speak to him, look at him, or breathe in his direction again without my permission... I won't just liquidate your father's company. I will personally see to it that you vanish from this city."

Damian shoved Marcus away. Marcus collapsed to his knees, coughing desperately and clutching his throat, tears streaming down his flushed face.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open onto the top-floor executive suite.

Damian stepped out smoothly, adjusting his cuffs as if he hadn't just shattered glass with a man's head. "Follow me, Julian."

Julian stood frozen for a second, looking down at his choking half-brother before walking out behind Damian. A strange, chaotic heat flared in his chest. Damian had defended him—brutally, possessively, and without a second thought.

They entered the sprawling glass corner office. The view of the city was breathtaking, but Julian’s attention was locked on Damian, who was already sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, opening a document.

"Why did you do that?" Julian asked, his voice shaking slightly as he stood before the desk. "Marcus is your ally in bringing down my father. Why attack him for me?"

Damian didn't look up from his papers. "I don't like filthy insects touching what belongs to me."

"I am NOT a object, Damian!" Julian shouted, slamming his palms onto the desk.

Damian slowly raised his head. His dark gaze pinned Julian to the spot. "You signed the contract, Julian. For the next six months, you are mine. Every inch of you."

Before Julian could fire back, Damian’s desk phone chimed.

Damian pressed a button. "Speak."

"Mr. Cross," his secretary's frantic voice echoed through the speaker. "The forensic team just finished analyzing the burnt remains of Mr. Vance's personal phone that you submerged in whiskey last night. They managed to recover a single encrypted voice note received five minutes before he arrived at your suite."

Julian held his breath, his eyes darting to the speaker.

"Play it," Damian commanded.

A static sizzle filled the room, followed by the distorted, breathing audio of a man's deep voice:

"Damian Cross thinks he’s playing chess, but he doesn't know the king is already dead. Julian Vance isn't Richard’s son... he’s the illegal heir to the Cross family fortune. Kill him before Damian finds out."

CLICK.

Silence fell over the room like a heavy iron vault shutting tight.

Julian felt the blood drain entirely from his face. His knees buckled, and he stumbled backward, hitting the edge of the leather sofa.

An illegal heir to the Cross family?

Damian slowly stood up from his chair. The dark, terrifying warmth in his eyes was completely gone, replaced by a raw, bloodthirsty fury that turned his handsome face into a mask of pure terror.

He walked around the desk, stopping right in front of Julian. He reached down, grabbing Julian by the lapels of his suit and pulling him up until their faces were inches apart.

"Is that why you came into my life?" Damian growled, his breath hot and lethal against Julian's lips. "To steal my empire?"