Isabella's fingers trembled as she silenced her phone, the anonymous text—Your paintings know too much. Be careful, Isabella—searing into her mind like a brand. The words felt like a blade, sharp and personal, cutting through the haze of desire Julian had ignited. His penthouse, with its sleek marble and glittering city view, felt suddenly too vast, too exposed. She stood by the window, her cherry-red lips pressed tight, as Julian's voice pulled her back.
"Isabella," he said, his tone softer now, laced with concern. He'd crossed the room, his shirt still rumpled from their earlier heat, his gray eyes searching hers. "What's wrong?"
She forced a smile, her heart racing for all the wrong reasons. "Nothing," she lied, slipping the phone into her clutch. "Just… this place. It's a lot." She gestured to the sprawling penthouse, deflecting, but her mind churned. Who knew about her paintings? Her past? And why did it feel like Julian's world was closing in around her?
He stepped closer, his hand brushing her arm, reigniting the spark that never quite died. "You're not a good liar," he murmured, his thumb grazing her wrist, sending a shiver through her. "Talk to me."
Her gaze flicked to his, and for a moment, she wanted to spill everything—the text, the fear, the ghosts of her small-town past she'd buried in her art. But his touch, warm and steady, pulled her back to the present, to the fire between them. "Not now," she whispered, stepping into him, her hands sliding up his chest. "I need… this."
His eyes darkened, a storm of want and something deeper, something that scared her as much as it thrilled her. "Then take it," he said, his voice a low growl. He pulled her against him, his lips crashing onto hers with a hunger that erased the world. The kiss was desperate, consuming, a tangle of tongues and teeth that left her breathless. Her fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons, popping them free as his hands slid under her dress, gripping her thighs with a possessiveness that made her moan.
He lifted her, carrying her to a plush chaise by the window, the city's glow bathing them in gold. She straddled him, her dress pooling around her hips, her cherry-red lips parting as his mouth found her throat, kissing a blazing trail to her collarbone. "You're everything," he whispered, his voice raw, his hands roaming her curves with a reverence that made her heart ache. Her nails raked his shoulders, and she arched into him, the heat between them building to a fever pitch.
The world narrowed to his touch, his breath, the way he murmured her name like a prayer. His fingers traced the edge of her lingerie, teasing, and she gasped, pulling him closer, their bodies pressed so tight she could feel his heartbeat. "Julian," she breathed, her voice a plea as the tension coiled, ready to snap. The city lights blurred, the penthouse fading, until it was just them, lost in a dance of fire and need.
A sharp crash shattered the moment—a glass tumbling from the bar, followed by a familiar voice. "Well, isn't this cozy?"
Isabella froze, her breath ragged, as Ethan Caldwell sauntered in, his blond hair catching the light, his grin all charm and trouble. Julian's grip tightened, his jaw clenching as he eased Isabella off his lap, his body shielding hers. "Ethan," he said, his tone ice-cold. "You have a knack for bad timing."
Ethan's eyes danced with mischief, lingering on Isabella's flushed cheeks and rumpled dress. "Or perfect timing, depending on the view." He winked, but his gaze sharpened, flicking to Julian. "We've got a problem. The board's sniffing around your latest deal, and Lena's not helping."
Isabella's stomach twisted at Lena's name, the memory of her cryptic warning—You have no idea what you've stepped into—colliding with the anonymous text. She smoothed her dress, standing tall despite the heat pulsing through her. "What's Lena got to do with this?" she asked, her voice steady, her cherry-red lips set in a defiant line.
Ethan's grin falor, replaced by a flicker of unease. "She's stirring the pot, as usual. Thinks your paintings are some kind of exposé. You've got her spooked, Isabella."
Julian's hand found hers, squeezing lightly, but his eyes were on Ethan, hard and unyielding. "Enough. We'll deal with it tomorrow."
But the door opened again, and a new figure stepped in—a man, late 40s, with silver-flecked hair and a commanding presence that rivaled Julian's. His tailored suit screamed old money, and his dark eyes locked onto Isabella with a mix of curiosity and calculation. "Julian, we need to talk," he said, his voice smooth but edged with authority. "Now."
Julian's posture stiffened. "Father," he said, the word clipped, loaded with history. "This isn't the time."
Isabella's breath caught. Father? She studied the man—Vincent Blackwood, she realized, recognizing the name from headlines about the Blackwood empire. His presence filled the room, but his gaze on her was unsettling, like he was peeling back her layers.
"Miss Voss," Vincent said, his smile polite but cold. "Your art's causing quite a stir. Some say it's… revealing." His eyes flicked to Julian, a silent challenge. "Care to explain why it's got my daughter so rattled?"
Isabella's mind raced, the text flashing in her memory. Her paintings—raw, personal, born from a past she'd buried—were just art. Weren't they? "I paint what I feel," she said, her voice firm despite the unease creeping up her spine. "If that rattles people, maybe they're seeing their own secrets."
Vincent's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Bold words. But be careful, Miss Voss. Secrets have a way of biting back."
Julian stepped between them, his hand still in hers, a protective wall. "That's enough, Father. Isabella's not your concern."
Vincent's gaze lingered, then he nodded. "For now." He turned to Ethan. "Caldwell, with me. We'll discuss the board." Ethan shot Isabella a playful salute before following Vincent out, leaving a heavy silence.
Isabella turned to Julian, her heart pounding. "Your sister, your ex, your business partner, your father," she said, her voice sharp. "Anyone else I should know about before I'm in too deep?"
Julian's eyes softened, but the weight of his secrets lingered. "You're already in deep," he said, pulling her close, his lips brushing her forehead. "But I'm not letting you go."
Her body wanted to melt into him, to lose herself in the fire again, but the text, Vincent's words, and Lena's warning were a cold shadow. She pulled back, her cherry-red lips parting. "Then start talking, Julian. Because I'm not here to be played."
His hand cupped her face, his thumb tracing her lip, reigniting the heat. "Stay," he said, his voice a promise. "And I'll give you everything—starting tonight."
As his lips met hers again, softer but no less intense, a distant sound—a faint, deliberate click—echoed from the hallway. Someone was watching. And Isabella knew this fire was about to get dangerous.