The next morning, Savannah Hale walked into Thorne Enterprises with her chin high and her guard higher. She was getting used to the sleek professionalism, the whispers behind manicured hands, the way everyone looked at her like she didn't belong.
But she did. More than they realized.
Julian had summoned her for a "follow-up," though his messages never included details—just time, place, and a hint of mystery that irritated her more than it intrigued her.
Mostly.
Today, it wasn't the rooftop or the boardroom. It was the penthouse suite on the fortieth floor. A private space with floor-to-ceiling windows and an impossible view of the city. The décor was sharp—dark wood, brushed steel, books that looked read rather than arranged.
Julian stood by the window, back to her, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He didn't turn when she entered.
"You came."
"I always show up," she said. "It's what reporters do."
He finally turned. There was something different about him today—less polished, more… unfiltered.
"Did you know your father nearly bought this building?" he asked.
Savannah froze.
"No," she said, carefully. "I didn't."
"He backed out the year before Thorne Enterprises acquired it. Said it was too unstable an investment."
She crossed her arms. "You're trying to get in my head."
"No. I'm showing you how connected we already were—long before we met."
That unsettled her. She didn't like her past brushing against his. Her father's empire had crumbled, but the echoes still chased her.
Julian gestured to a small lounge area where coffee steamed beside a tray of croissants. "Sit. I have something to show you."
She didn't sit. Not right away.
"I'm not here for breakfast," she said. "I'm here for truth."
He nodded, amused. "Good. Because truth is what you'll get."
He handed her a slim folder. Savannah flipped it open and paused.
Blueprints. Financials. Schematics.
"This is one of our upcoming projects," he said. "A luxury development. Clean permits. Local approval. But two weeks ago, someone tried to bribe the city inspector to shut it down."
She raised an eyebrow. "You think that's news?"
"I think it's a story." His voice was low. "Especially when the bribe came from inside Thorne Enterprises."
That stopped her cold.
"Your own people are sabotaging you?"
"Not mine. Damien's."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why tell me?"
"Because you want the truth. And I want leverage."
She hated how often they wanted the same things.
Savannah closed the folder slowly. "You're using me."
"Of course," Julian said. "Just like you're using me."
There was a silence that burned between them.
Then he added, "I want you to investigate it. Quietly. You'll have full access."
"And what do you get in return?"
He smiled. "If Damien's going to burn this empire down, I want to hand him the match."
By afternoon, Savannah was deep in research. Julian had given her a temporary office—glass walls, sharp edges, and a view that made her feel like she was floating. It was beautiful, and completely disorienting.
Ava called around three.
"Please tell me you're not falling for this man," Ava said as soon as she picked up.
"I'm not," Savannah muttered.
"You are."
"I'm working."
"Uh-huh. In your glass castle, surrounded by secrets, next to a morally complicated billionaire with cheekbones that could cut glass."
Savannah rolled her eyes. "It's just a job."
There was a pause. Then Ava's voice softened.
"Just… don't forget who you are in all this, Sav. You lost a lot the last time you trusted someone powerful."
Savannah's throat tightened.
"I haven't forgotten."
She hung up without saying goodbye.
That night, she met Julian again—this time at a charity gala Thorne Enterprises was sponsoring. It was held in a museum-turned-event space, all marble arches and chandeliers. Everyone was dressed to seduce or destroy.
She wore black velvet—backless, simple, stunning.
Julian's eyes flicked over her when she arrived, a flicker of something raw crossing his face before it was buried again.
"You clean up well," he said.
She smiled. "So do you."
He offered his arm. "Shall we pretend to be civil?"
She took it. "I'm always civil. It's the rest of you who's the problem."
Inside, the air buzzed with polished small talk, champagne flutes, and false laughter. Savannah recognized at least three CEOs, a senator, and an influencer she'd written a scathing piece on last year.
Everyone wanted a piece of Julian. And yet, his focus never strayed far from her.
"You throw a good party," she murmured.
"I don't throw them," he said. "I survive them."
They drifted to a quieter corner, where shadows cloaked the edge of the gallery. He studied her like she was another work of art—something rare, something with sharp edges and secret meanings.
"What was your father like?" he asked suddenly.
Savannah stiffened.
"Why?"
"Because I need to know if you're chasing him through me."
Her breath caught. The question landed too close to the truth.
"He was brilliant," she said eventually. "And cruel. He built towers and tore people down. He cared more about power than people. And he died thinking no one could touch him."
Julian nodded once. "Sounds familiar."
She looked at him. "You're not him."
"No," he said. "I'm worse."
An hour later, Damien appeared.
He slid up beside her like a shadow—charming, lethal, smiling.
"You look ravishing, Savannah," he said, brushing a kiss over her hand. "Don't let my brother ruin you."
Julian's voice cut in. "Back off, Damien."
Damien's smile sharpened. "Careful, big brother. You keep showing your teeth, people might think you care."
Savannah stepped between them.
"Please. If you two are going to have a testosterone contest, at least wait until the guests leave."
Julian's jaw tightened. Damien just laughed.
"Smart and savage. No wonder Julian's obsessed."
He walked away, leaving tension thick as smoke.
Savannah turned to Julian. "What happened between you two?"
Julian's voice was quiet.
"My father left me the empire. He left Damien his debts."
She blinked.
"He resents you for it?"
"No. He hates me for not giving it all away."
Later, outside on the museum's stone balcony, Savannah breathed in the cool air. The gala music was muffled now, a distant echo. She stared at the city lights, her thoughts loud in the silence.
"You were incredible in there," Julian's voice said behind her.
She didn't turn. "I wasn't performing."
"I know."
He stepped beside her, not touching, but too close.
"You're not what I expected," she said.
"I'm exactly what you expect," he replied. "That's the problem."
His gaze found hers. And this time, he didn't hide the storm in his eyes.
"Why do you let me in?" she whispered.
"Because you see through me."
She hated how true that felt.
"You should push me away," she said.
"I've tried."
He brushed his fingers lightly over hers on the railing. Just a whisper of contact. It burned like truth.
She pulled back.
"We're not doing this."
Julian leaned in slightly. "Aren't we?"
Her breath caught.
Then she turned and walked away.
Hours later, Savannah sat alone in her apartment, wine glass in hand, city light bleeding through the windows.
She hated how easily he got under her skin. Hated that beneath all the suspicion and fire, something inside her wanted more.
But the story came first.
It always had to.
She opened her laptop and began typing. Not an article. Not yet.
Just notes.
Julian Thorne—strategic, volatile, honest in the moments that matter. Hiding something. Maybe multiple things.
Damien Thorne—dangerous. Charming. Intentions unclear. Possibly involved in sabotage.
Thorne Enterprises—clean on the surface. Still water runs deep.
Me—still chasing ghosts. Still wanting the wrong things.
Still afraid I'll lose myself in someone who already knows how to disappear.