Isabella's breath caught as the faint click from the hallway lingered in her ears, a chilling counterpoint to the heat of Julian's lips on her temple. Someone had been watching—someone who knew her, her paintings, her secrets. The anonymous text burned in her mind: Your paintings know too much. Be careful, Isabella. She pulled back from Julian, her cherry-red lips parting, her hazel eyes searching his for answers he hadn't yet given. The penthouse, with its glittering Manhattan skyline and sleek elegance, felt like a gilded trap.
"Who's out there, Julian?" she asked, her voice steady but sharp, cutting through the haze of desire. Her fingers still rested on his jaw, but the warmth of his touch couldn't drown out the unease coiling in her gut. "And don't tell me it's nothing. I'm done with half-truths."
Julian's gray eyes flickered, a storm of conflict brewing behind his controlled facade. "I don't know," he said, his voice low, honest in a way that startled her. "But I'll find out." His hand slid to her waist, possessive yet gentle, pulling her closer. "You're safe here, Isabella. With me."
Her laugh was soft, bitter. "Safe? Your sister's throwing shade, your father's throwing threats, and someone's sending me cryptic texts about my art. Your world's anything but safe."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't let go. "Then let me make it worth it," he murmured, his lips brushing hers, reigniting the fire that had nearly consumed them moments ago. She wanted to resist, to demand more answers, but his kiss was a drug, slow and deliberate, unraveling her defenses. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned, a low, primal sound that sent heat racing through her.
He guided her toward the bedroom, a sanctuary of dark wood and crisp white linens, the city's glow filtering through massive windows. Her dress fell away under his deft fingers, pooling at her feet, leaving her in black lace that made his eyes darken with raw need. "You're breathtaking," he whispered, his voice rough as he lifted her onto the bed, his body covering hers. His lips found her throat, kissing a searing path to her shoulder, then lower, teasing the edge of her bra. Her breath hitched, her body arching into him, craving more.
"Julian," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as his hands explored her curves, each touch a spark that built into a blaze. Her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer, the friction of his still-clothed body against her bare skin driving her wild. His mouth claimed hers again, deeper, hungrier, and she melted into him, the world narrowing to the rhythm of their breaths, the heat of their bodies. His fingers traced her thigh, slipping under lace, and she moaned, the sound swallowed by his kiss as they moved together, lost in a dance of fire and surrender.
The moment stretched, a delicious eternity, until they collapsed, tangled in sheets, their breaths ragged, hearts pounding. His forehead rested against hers, his hand cupping her face, thumb brushing her cherry-red lips. "You're mine," he murmured, the words both a promise and a plea.
She smiled, breathless but defiant. "Not yet, Blackwood. I'm no one's until I know the truth."
Before he could respond, the bedroom door creaked open, revealing a new figure—a woman in her early 30s, with sleek platinum hair and a designer dress that screamed calculated elegance. Her blue eyes were sharp, her smile a razor's edge. "Am I interrupting?" she asked, her voice dripping with faux sweetness.
Julian sat up, his body tensing like a coiled spring. "Vanessa," he said, his tone flat but laced with warning. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Isabella pulled the sheet around herself, her heart racing, not from shame but from the sudden shift in the air. This wasn't Lena's cold hostility or Mara's bohemian warmth—this was something sharper, more dangerous. "Who's this?" Isabella asked, her voice steady, her cherry-red lips curling into a challenge.
Vanessa's smile widened, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Vanessa Reed, Julian's… advisor. And you must be the artist causing all the fuss." Her gaze flicked to the bed, then back to Isabella, assessing. "Your paintings are quite the topic, Isabella. Especially with certain… investors."
Isabella's stomach dropped, the text flashing in her mind. "Investors?" she said, standing, the sheet wrapped around her like armor. "Or people who send anonymous threats?"
Vanessa's laugh was light, but it cut like glass. "Threats? Oh, darling, you're in deep now." She turned to Julian. "We need to talk. The board's meeting tomorrow, and Lena's pushing hard. Your little artist here is complicating things."
Julian stood, his shirt half-open, his presence commanding despite the tension. "Vanessa, out. Now."
She raised a brow but didn't move. "Careful, Julian. You're playing with fire, and not just the fun kind." Her eyes flicked to Isabella, a warning in their depths, before she turned and left, her heels clicking like a countdown.
Isabella rounded on Julian, her voice low. "Advisor? Really? What else aren't you telling me?"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Vanessa's a fixer. She handles the messy parts of my business—deals, rivals, secrets. She's loyal, but she doesn't trust easily. Especially not you."
"And why's that?" Isabella pressed, her hands on her hips, the sheet slipping slightly, revealing the curve of her shoulder. "Because of my paintings? Or because I'm not one of your polished elites?"
Julian's eyes softened, but his voice was firm. "Because you're a wildcard, Isabella. You don't fit their mold, and that scares them." He stepped closer, his hand brushing her cheek. "But it's why I can't stay away."
Her heart skipped, torn between desire and doubt. Vanessa's words, the text, Lena's warning, Vincent's menace—they were a web tightening around her. But Julian's touch, his sincerity, kept her tethered to the moment. She leaned into him, her lips grazing his. "Then prove it," she whispered. "No more shadows."
Before he could respond, her phone buzzed again. Another text, from the same unknown number: Leave now, or the truth about your past comes out. Her blood ran cold, and she pulled back, her eyes locking onto Julian's. Someone wasn't just watching—they were hunting.