“I’m receiving your files now.” I hear the click of her keyboard. “Initial reactions suggest this could indicate an acute stress response manifesting as persecutory behavior, possibly exacerbated by underlying personality pathology.”
“Precisely what I suspected.” I stand, unable to remain still. “I need documentation of that assessment. Her behavior has progressed from verbal abuse to property destruction. I’m concerned about further escalation.”
“Toward her son?”
“Yes.” A chill spreads through my chest at the thought. “She’s already demonstrated she’ll hurt him to punish him. I want to be prepared with a psychological profile that would support an emergency restraining order, or if necessary, an involuntary psychiatric evaluation.”
“I see the text message threats. Those alone are concerning.” Her voice remains clinically detached. “I’ll review everything and have a preliminary assessment ready by tomorrow morning. If the pattern indicates what I suspect, you’ll have grounds for legal intervention.”
“Perfect.” I pause, “This requires your absolute discretion, Amelia.”
“As always, Julian. My professional opinion will be factual and unbiased, but I understand the sensitivity.”
After hanging up with Amelia, I check my phone. No messages from Elliot. I wonder if he’s still sleeping, exhausted from grief and trauma. The thought of him alone in my penthouse, vulnerable and hurting, creates an unfamiliar ache in my chest.
I pull up the photos Victor sent of Margaret Chambers visiting her country club this morning, laughing with friends as if she hadn’t just destroyed her son’s livelihood. My fingers tighten around my phone until my knuckles turn white.
This isn’t business anymore. It’s personal in a way that nothing has ever been for me before. The intensity of my need to protect him should terrify me, but instead, it crystallizes into something sharp and certain inside my chest.
I will burn the world down before I let her hurt him again.
31
ELLIOT
The buzzer jolts me from my daze. I’ve been staring at my phone for God knows how long, scrolling through photos of my gallery—what used to be my gallery. Julian left hours ago.
I hesitate at the intercom. “Hello?”
“Elliot? It’s Bianca. I heard about the gallery.”
Bianca? I blink in confusion. How did she know I’d be at Julian’s? Of course. I shake my head. The Hunt. She was there.
“The doorman said you were here,” she continues. “I brought coffee and pastries. Seemed like you could use both.”
I press the button to let her up, frantically running a hand through my hair. I’m wearing Julian’s sweatpants and T-shirt, hardly presentable, but there’s no time to change.
When I open the door, Bianca stands there balancing a cardboard tray of coffees in one hand and a pink bakery box in the other. Her dark brown hair falls in waves around her face, and her hazel eyes soften with sympathy when she sees me.
“You look like hell,” she says, a glaring example of her no-bullshit personality. It’s one thing I envy about her, her ability to say what she thinks without filter.
“I feel like it, too.” I step back. “How did you find out?”
She sets everything on Julian’s sleek kitchen counter. “It’s all over the news. I’m so sorry, Elliot.”
The simple kindness in her voice nearly breaks me all over again. Bianca and I have known each other for only months. We’re friendly, but not close enough for house calls and comfort food.
“Julian mentioned you were staying here,” she adds, pulling off her coat. “I hope it’s okay I came by.”
“Of course,” I say, gesturing toward the dining table. “I appreciate it, truly.”
She opens the box, revealing an assortment of pastries. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got options.”
“Right now, I’d eat cardboard if it came with enough sugar.” I manage a weak smile.
We settle at Julian’s massive glass dining table, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. It feels surreal—sitting in Julian Frost’s penthouse, eating croissants with Bianca Hayes while my gallery sits in ashes across town.
“Cream? Sugar?” she asks, sliding a coffee toward me.
