Chapter 8 - The Velvet Prison
For three days, Clara didn't leave the penthouse.
It was a beautiful prison. Her closet was suddenly filled with designer clothes meticulously tailored to her curves. A private chef prepared her meals. But there were armed guards stationed at the elevator, and Julian was a ghost.
He left before dawn and returned long after midnight, locking himself in his massive home office. Clara only saw the aftermath—bloody knuckles, ruined suits, and the exhausted slump of his broad shoulders when he thought no one was watching.
On the fourth night, Clara couldn't sleep. She wandered out of her guest suite in silk pajamas, heading for the kitchen.
She stopped in the hallway. The door to Julian’s study was ajar.
Julian was sitting in a leather wingback chair in the dark, a glass of whiskey in one hand, staring out at the city. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a torso covered in old, faded scars. But it was the fresh, brutal bruise along his ribs that made Clara gasp.
Julian’s head snapped toward the door. "Who's there?"
Clara pushed the door open, stepping into the dim light. "It's me."
Julian let out a heavy sigh, relaxing slightly. "You shouldn't be awake, Clara."
"Neither should you," she said softly, walking over to him. She looked at the dark purple bruise on his ribs. "You're hurt."
"Occupational hazard," he murmured, taking a sip of whiskey. "The Romanos are pushing hard. They want a seat on the hospitality board to launder their money through my casinos. I've been... politely declining their offers."
"By getting into fistfights in alleys?" Clara asked, grabbing a first-aid kit from his desk drawer. She knelt beside his chair.
"I don't need a nurse," Julian grumbled, though he didn't pull away when her soft hands touched his skin to apply an ice pack.
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"Shut up, Mr. Morreti," Clara commanded gently.
Julian looked down at her, his dark eyes tracking every movement of her face. "You're the only person in the world who tells me to shut up, Clara. God, you are beautiful."
