The Shape of Her Love

Chapter 11

It was a well-known fact among the city’s elite that Julian Thorne despised being touched.

Four years ago, a famous model had staged a dramatic fall by the pool at a gala, landing squarely in his arms. The tabloids had been ready to print a story of a scandalous new affair. Instead, Julian had unceremoniously dumped her into the chlorinated water. The next day, the model was blacklisted from the entire industry.

After that incident, Julian Thorne had become something of a legend—the untouchable monk of high society. No one dared to cross that line again.

But only he knew the truth. He hated being touched by others, yes. But he had never hated her touch. In the year they were married, he had been forced to exert a superhuman level of self-control to keep from acting on the dark, possessive desires she stirred in him.

Now, as her fingers brushed against his palm, his heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer against his ribs with a frantic, painful rhythm. The small patch of skin she had touched sizzled as if branded by a hot iron, the tingling, electric sensation spreading outwards, raising a fine tremor across his skin.

Willow snatched her hand back as if she’d been burned, her eyes wide with alarm. Her gaze flew up to his, and she saw the same shock mirrored in his expression.

His hand remained frozen in mid-air. For a fleeting moment, the unbreakable calm in his deep-set eyes fractured, and a ripple of emotion—something he hadn't felt in five long years—disturbed the surface.

The air in the room grew thick, heavy, and silent.

The spell was broken by a crisp, electronic chime from her phone. A robotic female voice announced, "You have received a payment of three million dollars."

Willow was momentarily stunned. She had never seen so much money in her life. Three million dollars, delivered right to her account. Julian Thorne wasn't just a golden goose; he was her personal patron saint of paydays.

She consciously pushed aside the strange flutter she’d felt at their touch and took her phone back from his hand. She then bent at the waist, giving him three deep, almost comically formal bows.

“Thank you, boss! You’re the best, boss! May your fortune multiply! I will work hard to repay your generosity!”

The energetic movement sent a few stray strands of hair dancing across her face. As she bowed, her rounded cheeks squished, making her look surprisingly endearing.

Julian subtly lowered his hand, clenching it into a tight fist at his side.

The other tutors watched, practically drooling with envy. A fifty-thousand-dollar daily salary in exchange for a few insults? That was a deal any one of them would take in a heartbeat. They turned hopeful, pleading eyes on Sienna, silently begging her to insult them next.

Sienna, however, was oblivious to their silent prayers. She glared at Willow, infuriated. It was her money, but all the gratitude was being directed at Julian. It was a public slap in the face.

“Ms. Hayes,” she snapped, “now that you’ve been paid, I expect results. If Damian doesn’t place first in the entrance exams and get into the advanced class, you will be returning that money to me.”

Willow clutched her phone to her chest as if Sienna might physically snatch it away. “Mrs. Thorne, this three million was an apology, per Mr. Thorne’s directive. If you want to guarantee your son places first, that will require a performance bonus. That’s a different price entirely.”

She was no fool. She wasn't letting this golden goose fly away. Besides, did Sienna have any clue about her own son’s academic abilities? Unless they could perform a brain transplant with a certified genius, there was no way Damian Thorne was getting into the advanced class in two months.

Sienna sputtered, turning to Julian. “Julian, do you see this? She takes the money but refuses to do the work! She’s completely unprofessional. You should just fire her!”

A muscle twitched in Julian’s jaw. “If you’re so concerned, sister-in-law, perhaps you should take Damian home and supervise his education yourself?”

Sienna froze. If she took Damian back, her entire pretense for being near Julian would be gone. Her plan would be ruined.

“Julian, you know that’s not what I meant,” she said, her voice shifting into a coquettish whine. “I feel much better knowing he’s here with you.”

“In that case,” Julian said, his patience clearly exhausted, “Jensen. Show our guest out.”

Sienna was stunned. She had only just arrived. They’d barely spoken. He was kicking her out already? Did he truly despise her this much?

“Julian, I haven’t seen Damian in so long. Please, just let me stay and spend some time with him.”

Julian remained unmoved, a statue of cold indifference.

Jensen materialized at her side. “Mrs. Thorne. This way, please.”

Sienna looked from Julian’s icy profile to the watching faces of the tutors. The humiliation was unbearable. With an indignant stomp of her foot, she grabbed her designer handbag and stormed out of the villa.

The sitting room fell into a dead silence. The remaining tutors exchanged nervous glances, the air thick with a tension so oppressive it felt hard to breathe. The rumors were true. Julian Thorne truly had no affection for his nephew or his widowed sister-in-law.

After Jensen returned, he politely escorted the other teachers upstairs to meet their new student.

The large room was suddenly empty, save for the two of them.

Willow was still buzzing, happily caressing her phone, giddy from the three-million-dollar deposit. She happened to look up and found Julian staring at her, his gaze so intense it was unnerving.

The giddiness vanished. She sobered instantly, hiding her phone behind her back. “M-Mr. Thorne. You already transferred the money. That means it’s mine. You can’t ask for it back.”

Her greedy, money-obsessed posture was so painfully familiar it made his chest ache.

Julian studied her face for a long moment, but the features remained stubbornly foreign. The Willow he knew had large, bright eyes that curved into crescents when she smiled, with distinct, double eyelids. This woman’s eyes were small, narrowed by the fullness of her face, and she had monolids.

How could this woman possibly be her?

He must be losing his mind, to suspect her identity based on a single, similar quirk of handwriting. He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh and held out the report. “You wrote this plan?”

Willow’s gaze dropped to the folder, her eyes lingering for a second on his long, elegant fingers. She took it from him. “Yes, that was me. Are you satisfied with it? If not, I can make changes right now.”

“It’s fine,” Julian said coolly. Bringing Damian here was just for show. He had no intention of actually cultivating the boy into a worthy successor. He wasn't his son. He wouldn't raise a tiger that might one day turn on him.

As he turned to leave, the collar of his pajamas shifted, revealing more of the bruised skin beneath. The image from the morning—the blood-like stains on his white shirt—flashed in her mind.

“Mr. Thorne, wait,” she called out impulsively.

He paused, one foot on the first step, and glanced back at her. “Is there something else?”

Willow’s eyes darted to his collar, but the marks were hidden again. She looked back up at his face. His lips were pale, his skin utterly devoid of color. He was enveloped in a sickly, depressive aura. He looked exactly as he had at the window that morning, perhaps even worse.

“Are you… sick?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. Even at the dinner party last night, she’d sensed that something was wrong beneath the polished, powerful exterior.

Julian’s eyes narrowed, his gaze turning sharp and cold as a razor’s edge. “What business is that of yours?”

Willow flinched.

“Ms. Hayes,” he continued, his voice dripping with ice, “know your place. We have a professional relationship, nothing more. Don’t mistake my actions today for anything personal, and don't start getting any improper ideas.”

Willow was stunned by the sudden, vicious shift in his tone. The words were a direct shot to her pride. The man she had discarded was now accusing her of wanting him? How could he still be so arrogant?

“Don’t worry, Mr. Thorne,” she retorted, her own voice turning chilly. “You misunderstood. It was a casual question, not a declaration of concern. And believe me, I have absolutely no ‘improper ideas’ about you.”