Chapter 4: A Knock On The Heavy Oak Door
The silence of the private dressing suite was thick, smelling faintly of dry cleaning solvent and expensive floor wax. I had spent the last hour pacing the perimeter of the room, tracking the soft hiss of the central air conditioning and the muffled thrum of downtown traffic far below. Julian had left me here twenty minutes ago with a curt instruction to stay put, his jaw set like carved granite as he locked the heavy oak door from the outside.
When the electronic lock clicked and the latch turned, I froze beside the floor-to-ceiling mirror. I expected Julian's dark wavy hair, his tailored black suit, the sharp, assessing glare that had pinned me to the marble floor of the penthouse. Instead, the man who stepped into the room was older, his hair silvering neatly at the temples, wearing a charcoal three-piece suit that cost more than my first car. He carried a heavy, polished leather briefcase in one hand.
Marcus. I recognized him from a handful of foundation galas where he had hovered at Julian's elbow like a shadow in an expensive suit.
He closed the door softly behind him, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He didn't look surprised to find me standing there in the white silk robe, though his eyes swept the room with an appraising flick that took in every detail—the unmade velvet settee, the untouched bottle of mineral water on the glass table, the slight tremor in my hands.
"Ana," he said. His voice was a low, smooth baritone, entirely devoid of inflection. "Julian is occupied on the thirty-eighth floor. He asked me to come down and handle the preliminary arrangements."
"Arrangements," I repeated, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. I crossed my arms tightly over my chest, pulling the silk lapels together. "What arrangements?"
Marcus set his briefcase down on the mahogany table with a soft thud. He unlatched the brass clasps, lifted the lid, and pulled out a slim leather folder filled with thick cream-colored paper. He didn't offer a smile, nor did he offer a seat.
"Let's call it risk management," Marcus said, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles. He looked up at me, his eyes cool and steady. "How are you feeling? Julian mentioned you had a difficult morning."
"My health isn't your concern, Marcus."
"On the contrary," he replied smoothly, turning the first page of the folder. "As of this morning, your health and its subsequent developments directly impact the foundation, several pending corporate mergers, and Julian's public standing. Therefore, it becomes my primary concern."
The clinical detachment in his voice hit me harder than Julian's fury had. Julian yelled; Julian burned with a frantic, suffocating need for control. Marcus didn't care about the baby, or about me, or about the terror that had made me hide that little white test strip in the first place. To Marcus, I was a variable in an equation, a sudden compliance issue that threatened the bottom line.
"It's not a risk management asset," I said, my voice dropping an octave as I stepped closer to the table. "It's a child. Julian's child."
"Of course," Marcus said, his pen poised above a blank line on the document. "And Julian intends to ensure all legal and financial protections are established. However, we must be pragmatic. Unplanned developments of this nature invite speculation. The press is already sniffing around the spring gala guest lists. If there is any ambiguity regarding your residence, your financial independence, or your medical timeline, the board will demand answers."
He looked up, meeting my glare without flinching.
"Julian expects your total cooperation on this," Marcus continued, his tone hardening just a fraction. "He has already instructed the estate managers to transfer your personal belongings to a secure facility. By tonight, your apartment downtown will be vacated. You will remain under foundation supervision until the first trimester benchmarks are cleared."
"And if I say no?" I asked, the defiance flaring up from somewhere deep inside my chest.
May you like
Marcus closed the leather folder with a soft snap. He picked up his briefcase and straightened his cuffs, looking at me with mild, practiced pity.
"You wouldn't enjoy the alternative, Ana. Julian doesn't negotiate when his world is disrupted. He expects you in the conference room on the thirty-sixth floor by five o'clock. Don't keep him waiting."
