BURNING BRIDGES

CHAPTER 4: The Confession

Julian's penthouse occupied the top floor of a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and industrial chic. Elena told herself she came for the contract, for the blueprints he'd mentioned, for any professional reason she could manufacture.

But when he opened the door in worn jeans and no shirt, she forgot her carefully prepared speech.

"You're staring," he said, stepping aside to let her enter.

"You've been working out." Stupid. Obvious.

"I had to do something with all that energy." He led her to the kitchen, where wine waited. "Sit. I'll cook."

"You cook now?"

"I learned a lot of things, waiting for you to come back." He chopped vegetables with surprising skill. "Including patience. And how to make a decent risotto."

She perched on a barstool, watching the play of muscles in his back. The tattoo she'd once traced with her tongue was still there—abstract geometric patterns covering his left shoulder, extending down his arm. She'd designed it, during a weekend when they'd barely left bed.

"Why the Henderson building?" she asked, desperate for safe ground.

He paused, knife hovering over garlic. "Because you loved it. That summer we spent in the city, you made me walk past it three times. You said it was 'tragically beautiful.'"

She didn't remember telling him that. Didn't remember him listening so carefully. "You bought a twelve-story building because I liked the façade?"

"I bought it because I could." He turned, leaning against the counter. "And because restoring it felt like restoring something else I lost. Does that make me pathetic?"

It made him dangerous. "Julian—"

"I invested in legitimate businesses, Elena. Clean money, clean deals. The partners I cut ties with weren't happy, but I survived." He moved closer, close enough that she could see the scar above his eyebrow, new since she'd left. "I built this life hoping you'd see it. Hoping you'd be proud."

Her throat tightened. "I was always proud of you. That was never the problem."

"Then what was?" He cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "Tell me. Please."

The truth lodged in her chest, painful and sharp. "My father found out about your record. The juvenile detention, the assault charge. He said you'd drag me down. Ruin my reputation, my career, everything he'd built for me."

"So you chose him."

"I chose survival." She pulled away, wrapping her arms around herself. "He was dying, Julian. Cancer, though he hid it well. He needed me to take over the firm, to be the daughter he could trust. And he said if I stayed with you, he'd cut me out completely. No inheritance, no company, no way to help my sister through college."

Julian went very still. "Your father died two years ago."

"Yes."

"And you didn't come back."

"Because by then, I'd convinced myself you hated me. That I'd destroyed everything." She laughed bitterly. "And I was right, wasn't I? You built an empire to spite me. To prove I was wrong about you."

"Elena." His voice was rough. "I built an empire to be worthy of you. To have something to offer when you finally returned."

The confession hung between them, fragile and terrifying. She reached for him before she could stop herself, her hands framing his face, her mouth finding his with all the tenderness she'd suppressed for three years.

He responded like a man drowning, lifting her onto the counter, stepping between her thighs. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her breasts, tangled in her hair—while his mouth mapped her neck with desperate precision.

"Bedroom," she gasped as his fingers found the button of her slacks.

"Can't wait." He slid his hand inside her underwear, and she cried out at the contact, at the familiarity of his touch, at how quickly her body remembered his. "God, Elena. You're already wet. Still so responsive."

"Julian—" She bit his shoulder as he circled her c**t with devastating expertise. "We should talk—"

"Later." He worked her with his fingers, his thumb pressing just right while his other hand freed her breast from its confines. "I've got three years to make up for. Starting now."

When she came, it was with his name breaking across her lips, her nails scoring his back, her world narrowing to the point where they connected. He held her through the aftershocks, then lifted her, carrying her toward the bedroom with single-minded intent.

"That was just the beginning," he promised, laying her on sheets that smelled of him. "Tonight, I intend to remind you of every reason you stayed. And every reason you should never leave again."