“Don’t you dare apologize,” I murmur against his hair. “Not for her. Never for her.”
Holding him, I feel an unfamiliar protectiveness surge through me. The detached Julian Frost I’ve always been seems like a stranger compared to this version of me who wants to shield Elliot from every hurt.
The single-minded hatred in that woman’s eyes—his own mother—makes my blood boil. How many years has he spent trying to earn love from someone incapable of giving it?
27
ELLIOT
Iwake to the soft ping of my phone, reaching blindly across Julian’s massive bed. The sheets still hold his scent, though he left hours ago for an early meeting. Strange how quickly this penthouse has become a sanctuary—my temporary home since the confrontation with my mother three days ago.
The phone rings before I can check the notification. An unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Is this Elliot Chambers?” A man’s voice.
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Fire Chief Donovan. I’m calling about the Chambers Gallery on Fifth Avenue. There’s been a fire, Sir.”
My stomach drops. “What? How bad?”
“I’m afraid it’s significant. The building is currently engulfed, and we’re working to contain it before it spreads.”
I bolt upright, clutching the phone. “Was anyone hurt? My assistant sometimes comes in early.”
“No injuries reported. The building was empty when the fire started.” He pauses. “Mr. Chambers, I should mention that ourinitial assessment suggests arson. There appears to have been multiple ignition points.”
The word reverberates through me like a shockwave. Arson. Not an accident.
“I’ll be right there.”
I throw on yesterday’s clothes, not bothering with a shower. Julian’s driver isn’t available without notice, so I book an Uber while jamming my feet into shoes.
My phone pings with a text as I’m rushing toward the elevator.
Unknown Number: Looks like God will make you pay for your sins after all. You brought this on yourself.
My mother. I recognize her brand of cruelty. She did this.
The elevator doors close as I stare at the message, mind racing through the implications. My entire collection. Artists who trusted me with their work. Years of building my reputation—all potentially reduced to ash because I finally stopped lying about who I am.
My hands tremble as the elevator descends. Julian isn’t here to steady me this time. I’m facing this alone.
The Uber is barely pulling away from Julian’s building when my phone rings again. Julian’s name flashes across the screen.
“Elliot? Are you okay? I just heard about the gallery.”
“No.” The word comes out ragged. “I’m heading there now. The fire chief called—they think it’s arson.”
“Jesus.”
“It was my mother.” My voice breaks on the last word. “She texted me right after the fire chief called. Some bullshit about God making me pay for my sins.”
The silence on Julian’s end is deadly. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped an octave, cold and precise.
“Forward me the text.”
