The Shadow Designer

Chapter 4 A New Chessboard

Inside the Rolls-Royce, Arthur handed me a clean towel. He asked for the nearest private clinic and made one call to tell them we were coming.

He did not ask me to explain the burn.

The clinic occupied a quiet townhouse in the city's most expensive district. A doctor cleaned my arm and covered the burn with cooling balm before bandaging it.

The written instructions were for that night.

Arthur waited until I was seated with a cup of tea before placing a slim leather portfolio on the table.

“This is a formal offer,” he said. “Chief Creative Partner at Sterling.”

I opened it.

The contract gave me my own studio, absolute creative control, and a budget larger than Julian's entire design department.

I kept looking for a clause that handed final approval to someone else. I found none.

I read the title twice. At Thorne Enterprises, I had never been allowed to put “lead designer” beneath my name.

My fingers reached the signature line. Arthur slid the portfolio back an inch.

“You can decide tomorrow,” he said. “Tonight, you were injured and needed a doctor. If a ride home is all you want from me, that's all this is.”

He left the portfolio between us and waited, without making the ride or treatment a debt I had to repay.

I pulled the contract back, uncapped the pen, and signed.

Chloe Vance.

The blue ink dried beneath my full name.

(Julian's POV)

A headache woke me the next morning. My ulcer had started before I even sat up.

“Chloe!”

The penthouse stayed silent.

I went to the kitchen expecting warm honey water and my medication on the counter. There was nothing there.

The refrigerator door was bare. The printed meal plans and pre-portioned snacks were gone. I slammed it shut and called her name again.

Her side of the closet was empty.

The bathroom held none of her lotions or perfume. Even the framed photo from our trip to Italy had disappeared from the bedroom shelf.

It was the only photograph of us I had ever left out.

Every shelf she had used was bare. She had done it all in one night.

I grabbed my phone and typed: *This foolishness is over. Come back to the penthouse now.*

A firm instruction would end this. Once the performance got tiring, she would remember everything I had given her.

I hit Send.

A red exclamation mark appeared beside the message.

*Message Failed to Send. This user has blocked your number.*

I tried again. The same notice appeared.

My ulcer cramped. I threw the phone onto the bed and told myself she would be back within the hour.

The screen stayed dark.