Julian Crowe was a charming ghost, a whiskey-scented reminder of the family they had been, and his arrival was a spark on the gasoline of Alistair's carefully laid plans. The tension that had gripped the penthouse since Elara's confession was a physical thing, a low-pressure system waiting to break. Alistair had withdrawn completely, a fortress sealed shut, leaving her to dissect his explosive reaction alone. Had it been rage? Or something else — something that looked terrifyingly like the foundations of his world cracking?
The storm arrived in the form of his brother, bursting into the sterile silence of the penthouse three days later without announcement. Elara was in the kitchen, nursing a cup of tea, when the elevator chimed and a man she'd never seen before strode out as if he owned the place. He was a distorted echo of Alistair — the same height, the same dark hair, but where Alistair was carved from ice and granite, this man was all loose-limbed grace and dissipated charm. His suit was expensive but rumpled, his smile easy but not quite reaching his tired eyes.
"Well, hello," he said, his voice a warm, melodic baritone that filled the space Alistair's silence had vacated. His gaze, a lighter, warmer shade of blue than his brother's, swept over her with open appreciation. "You must be the muse. I'm Julian. The less impressive, but far more fun, Crowe."
Before she could reply, Alistair emerged from his study. The air temperature dropped ten degrees. "Julian." His voice was a whip-crack. "You weren't invited."
"Since when do I need an invitation to see my only brother?" Julian spread his arms, a picture of wounded affability. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd see how the other half lives. Or, in your case, the other ninety-nine point nine percent." He winked at Elara, a gesture that was both disarming and deeply unsettling.
Lunch was a taut, miserable affair. Julian dominated the conversation, weaving tales of high-stakes poker games in Monaco and failed business ventures in Dubai, his narrative a rolling tapestry of charm and calamity. He drank his wine too quickly, his laughter a fraction too loud. Alistair sat in stony silence, his jaw clenched, his disdain a palpable force. Elara watched them, the fractured dynamic a window into a history she'd only known as a headline. She saw the way Julian needled his brother, a desperate, lifelong plea for attention, and the way Alistair dismissed him, a cold, final judgment.
When Alistair's phone rang and he retreated to his study with a final, warning glare at Julian, the atmosphere shifted. Julian's performative cheerfulness evaporated like mist. He swirled the wine in his glass, his eyes settling on Elara with a new, unnerving seriousness.
"He's really outdone himself with you," Julian said, his voice quieter now, stripped of its earlier bravado.
Elara stiffened. "I'm his commissioned artist."
Julian let out a short, humorless laugh. "Is that what he's calling it?" He took a long drink. "My brother doesn't collect art, darling. He collects beautiful, broken things. He enjoys the process of acquisition more than the possession." His weary eyes met hers, and for the first time, she saw a sharp intelligence buried beneath the dissipation. "You seem lovely. Truly. Which is why I'm going to give you a piece of advice my brother never would."
He leaned forward slightly, the scent of expensive whiskey and regret clinging to him. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, laced with a genuine, startling pity.
"My brother collects beautiful things, but he never knows how to love them. He only knows how to possess them. Run, while you still can."