Chapter 2 Then What Does That Make Me?

“No.”

Lucien caught Evan’s wrist before he could take another step. The grip wasn’t tight, but it was absolute.

“Why not?” Evan frowned, trying to yank his arm free. “Don’t you want to meet her?”

“It has nothing to do with romance,” Lucien said mildly.

But his gaze was still locked on the empty space where she had stood.

Evan stared at him. He couldn’t remember the last time Lucien’s eyes lingered on any woman—let alone praised one.

Since when does the ice monk talk about rainbows?

“I’m going,” Evan declared. He practically pried Lucien’s fingers off and sprinted back toward the stone steps.

Too late.

The plaza was empty. The angel was already gone.

—

Elena watched the white doves vanish into the clearing sky. Her mother had loved doves.

A low, predatory hum vibrated against the wet pavement, interrupting the memory. The black Bugatti slid to a halt right at her feet.

The passenger window rolled down. Julian Kade pushed his sunglasses up into his violet hair, a wicked, conspiratorial grin spreading across his face.

“Ms. Ashford. Welcome home.”

If Martin Hale were here, he would have had a stroke. Moments ago, this man had sped off in a blind, public rage. The text Elena had sent? It was to him.

“Long time,” she murmured, circling the hood and slipping into the low passenger seat.

The heavy door scissored shut, sealing them in. The leather was warm, the cabin tight. Intimate.

The Bugatti devoured the asphalt, merging into Crestmont traffic. At the first red light, Julian shifted. His arm brushed hers, his body practically humming with adrenaline.

“So?” His voice dropped, losing the boyish arrogance and replacing it with a dangerous, eager thrill. “How was my performance? I sold the outrage, didn’t I?”

He leaned in, his eyes dropping to the curve of her throat, waiting for his reward.

Elena didn’t look at him. She stared straight ahead, her profile cut from ice.

“You did well. I’ll have my people unfreeze your accounts by morning.”

Julian let out a rough, breathless laugh. “You’re serious? God, you’re the best.”

They had played the Ansels like a cheap piano. Elena had quietly nudged Audrey into the arms of that actor. The Ansels panicked and summoned their exiled daughter. Then, right at the finish line, Julian dropped the bomb and walked away with the moral high ground.

The Ansels were humiliated. Bleeding money. And entirely at Elena’s mercy.

“What’s next?” Julian asked, the tension in his jaw tightening.

Elena lowered the window. The humid summer wind whipped into the cabin, tossing her dark hair.

“Leak it. Let them know I orchestrated the whole thing.”

Julian’s head snapped toward her. The sheer recklessness of the demand hit him like a physical blow. “You want them to know? You just got back. If the Ansels find out—”

She rested her elbow on the door frame, gazing up at the fading rainbow. A slow, chilling smile touched her lips.

“Wouldn’t that make it more interesting?”

Jesus.

Julian swallowed hard. She didn’t just want to win. She wanted to play with her food. He had known her for three years, and sitting next to her right now, he realized he was entirely turned on by how terrifying she was.

—

Thirty minutes later, the Bugatti crawled up the driveway of a sprawling, European-style estate in East Crestmont. Not the Ansels’ property. Hers.

Beyond the central villa, every inch of the massive grounds was choked with a sea of vivid blue blossoms. Lush, creeping, and almost suffocatingly beautiful.

“What are these?” Julian asked, the heavy energy in the car shifting into something quieter.

Elena stepped out. She bent, her pale fingers brushing the deep sapphire petals.

“Blue star creepers,” she murmured softly. “They symbolize forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” Julian stepped out, his brows pulling together. “There’s a story.”

Perhaps she hadn’t spoken of it in too long. Or perhaps the damp summer air made her willing to bleed just a little.

“I planted them where she died,” she said calmly, not looking at him. “To ask for her forgiveness.”

Julian froze. “Her?”

Elena tilted her chin upward, her dark eyes locking onto the highest balcony framed by towering Roman columns.

“My mother.”

The wind rustled through the blue flowers, sounding like a whisper.

“Sixteen years ago. On a snow-filled night. I stood right here and watched her jump.”

Her tone was entirely devoid of emotion. She spoke like a coroner reading a report. That night, the snow had fallen heavily. She had called for an ambulance. She had waited. And waited.

It never came. Her mother died in her freezing arms.

When she finished the story, Elena unpinned the white camellia from her silk blouse—her mother’s favorite flower—and dropped it into the sea of blue.

At the age when she was most powerless, she had failed to protect the only person she loved. Now she was grown. The only thing left to do was drag every single executioner down with her.

Julian watched her, something hot and tight gripping his chest. He knew her as the Wall Street reaper. The financial prodigy who made seasoned hedge fund titans sweat through their custom suits. He had no idea this gaping, bloody wound existed beneath the ice.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, the playboy persona entirely stripped away. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“It’s fine,” she replied, her face a perfect mask.

The girl who could cry had died in the snow sixteen years ago. Elena Ashford did not break. She only broke others.

—

The drive to the Ansel estate was charged with a different kind of electricity. Julian casually mapped out the web of Crestmont’s elite families, and Elena filed every weakness away in her terrifying mind.

When the Bugatti idled on a quiet road just out of sight of the Ansel gates, Elena reached for her seatbelt.

Julian’s hand shot out. His large fingers wrapped tightly around hers over the latch. His skin was burning hot against her cool knuckles.

“You’re really walking in there alone?” His voice was rough, protective. “The Ansels aren’t gentle people, Elena. I don’t trust them around you.”

Elena looked down at his hand gripping hers, then slowly lifted her gaze to his eyes. She let out a soft, dark laugh.

“Not gentle?”

Her eyes gleamed with a manic, beautiful violence. She leaned in, her breath grazing his jaw.

“Their blood runs in my veins, Julian. If they aren’t decent people… then what does that make me?”

Julian’s brain short-circuited.

Right.

Why the hell was he worried about her? Her bodyguards weren’t there to protect her. They were there to protect the rest of the world from her.

He watched her slide out of the car, his pulse hammering against his ribs. He just hoped she restrained herself. It would be highly inconvenient if she got arrested for murder on her first day back.