Chapter 2: Echoes and Embers
Julian Sterling's POV
Silence reigned over my penthouse office, broken only by the hum of climate control and the distant beat of Manhattan thirty-nine stories below. Sterile perfection. Chrome, glass, bleached oak – a monument to control with none of man behind. My tomb I built. Sunlight played across dust motes but could not pierce the cold that clung to me.
On my desk, in simple contrast to burnished oak, lay Ava Thompson's portfolio. Open. Taunting.
Her pier design for Hudson Yards was not just good. It was…familiar. Brutalist pillars softened by flowing greens, asymmetrical glass reflecting the river's mood, a daring dance of light and darkness…Elena. The name echoed with emptiness. My deceased wife's signature style, her daring vision, reimagined by Isabelle's daughter. Marcus's new stepdaughter. Forbidden.
My fingers traced her dramatic curves. "She's Isabelle's daughter," I reminded myself, a chilling dash. "Marcus's stepdaughter. Off-limits. Catastrophic."' But still… the life of her creation, the unrepentant vitality bleeding through ink, was a siren call to my barrenness. It infused life into this tomb. "And yet…"
The intercom beeped. "Mr. Sterling? Miss Thompson is here."
"Send her in." My voice was unnaturally flat.
She entered, a dash of defiant color against monochrome. Plain skirt and blouse could not hide her elegance, the bright intelligent gleam of eyes flashing new wariness since Victoria's coffee shock. Good. Fear sharpened concentration. Or shattered it.
"Mr. Sterling." Cool, professional, tension humming beneath.
"Miss Thompson." I waved toward the other side. "Your proposal." I jabbed the portfolio. "Rash."
She turned back, a spark kindling to life in hazel depths. "Recklessness has a way of going before revolutionary, Mr. Sterling."
A flash of wicked enjoyment threatened my composure. Defiance. Elena had reached her limit. "Like its creator," I almost said. The words seared forbidden on my lips. Swallowed. "Groundbreaking takes impeccable execution. Not just pretty sentences. Can you manage it?"
"I wouldn't be here if I couldn't." No doubt. There was silent certainty that stirred something deep. There was pull, forceful and unwelcome, coiled tight. Her scent wafted to me – vanilla and a certain she that charged the air with defiance. Dangerous.
The briefing continued. Intense scrutiny, piercing questions. I noticed her furrowed brow in concentration, the automatic sweep of chestnut strands behind an ear. Focus. But my gaze strayed to her lips, daydreamed softness beneath professionalism. Forbidden.
Later, stillness was oppressive. Compulsion held me in its thrall. I flipped on the undercover security feed. Empty workstations. Quiet kitchen. And then, the design studio.
Ava. And Marcus. My brother slouched against a drafting table, an infuriatingly charming smile plastered on, telling her something that made Ava throw back her head and laugh. Actual, unrepentant. It hit like a blow. Jealousy. Fresh as shattered glass. When did I ever laugh so hard? Feel anything but icy responsibility and regret? Marcus drank in her glow. Guarding? Desiring?
A knock shattered the moment. Victoria Hayes stood framed, crimson dress a slash of aggression. "Julian. Henderson account needs sign-off."
"Leave it." My voice clipped, colder than intended.
She entered, icy stare sweeping, lingering on the feed of Marcus and Ava. A superior smile tingled on her lips. "Beguiling, isn't she? Fresh meat." She walked closer, suffocating perfume. "I've seen you gawk, Julian. That hungry gleam." Her voice turned poisonous. "She'll ruin it all. That hunger? Innocence. She doesn't know the game. The cost."
I encountered her glare. "Concern entered. Misplaced. Miss Thompson is strictly professional. Handle Henderson." Dismissal made clear.
Her sneer grew even tighter. "Of course. Strictly professional." She placed the file down with deliberation, eyes flicking again to the screen before leaving, heels clicking contempt.
"The Blueprint," an underground watering hole, dealt in shadows and secrecy. Low light, raw brickwork, hum of conversation, acrid scent of old whiskey. Meeting a recalcitrant investor. Business. Control.
And then I saw her. Ava. Being held by the bar by Richard Langley, known to be handsy. He loomed, red-faced, meaty palm clamped on her forearm, flailing badly. Her expression: a frozen politeness, body language screaming for flight, trapped against wood.
Something primal boiled up. Past reason, I pushed through the floor, air snapping. Langley didn't notice until my shadow landed.
"Richard." My voice, a whip-crack of glacial authority, cut the murmur. "Briefing my architect. Time-sensitive deadline." My eyes promised retribution beyond lost account.
Langley flinched, hand relaxing. "Julian! Didn't see you. just vision." He backed away, nervous laugh.
Ava stumbled when he released her. Reflexively, my hand shot out, grasping her waist. Jolt of electric touch. Heat through filmy silk, the heavy lurch of her heartbeat. She breathed in sharply, deep-set eyes shooting to mine – shock, relief, awareness flashing. Tiny, full of life in my hand.
Breathe," I barked, voice harsh. The command was for me. Her scent – vanilla, rebellion, fear – enveloped me, a hungry addict. My thumb stroked the line of her waist, feeling a tremor. The urge to push her against me, silence the chaos she unleashed, was terrifying. Forbidden. My hand did not release.
Parted lips fractionally, breathless. Light touched gold sparks in her eyes – confusion and a glimmer dancing back at me of my deadly blaze. Bar noise faded. Her heat alone, racing pulse under my palm, magnetic pull towards her mouth…
A glass shattered. The door slammed open. Caleb stood backlit, breathing hard, dark eyes scanning frantically. Fixed on us. On my possessively wrapped hand around her waist, pulling her into me.
Rage contorted his features. He bullied his way through the bar, shoving patrons aside, eyes never leaving me, hot rage. He stood inches from me, panting, scent of turpentine and night air still clinging. His low, threatening voice cut the air between us:
"Hands off, old man." His eyes snapped to Ava, burning with possession. "She's not one of your fucking toys."