Chapter 221: The Devil’s Unspoken Worry

The private elevator of Jullian’s Tribeca penthouse opened directly into a soaring, minimalist foyer of smoked glass and dark slate.

?Jullian dropped his car keys onto the marble console with a heavy sigh, loosening his silk tie as he turned toward the sprawling living room.

?"Make yourselves at home, ladies," Jullian announced with a theatrical sweep of his arm. "The wine cellar is fully stocked, the terrace heaters are on, and my personal chef left enough artisanal bites in the fridge to feed a small militia. Naturally, as your gracious host, I’ll be occupying the master suite down the hall—"

?Before he could finish the sentence, Clara walked right past him, picked up his tailored wool overcoat from the bench, and thrust it directly against his chest.

?Jullian blinked down at the heavy fabric, then up at her bruised, unimpressed face. "What is this?"

?"Your coat," Clara said flatly, pointing a manicured finger toward the open elevator doors. "Out, Montgomery."

?Jullian pressed a hand to his chest, his lips curling into an easy, roguish smirk as he leaned down into her space.

?"Come now, Clara," he purred, his hazel eyes flashing with cocky, velvet charm that had melted half the socialite circuit in Manhattan. "You’re going to throw me out into the cold October wind? After I personally chauffeured you through traffic and handed you the keys to my kingdom? At least admit you’ll miss having a handsome face around to open your wine bottles."

?Clara didn’t even blink. She didn’t offer a flustered blush, a shy smile, or even an ounce of air to his practiced routine.

?Instead, she crossed her arms over her oversized cardigan, her expression as deadpan as a granite slab.

?"I have a corkscrew, Jullian. And unlike you, it doesn’t talk." Clara reached out, tapped the elevator’s ’Lobby’ button, and stepped back. "Goodnight."

?Beside the kitchen island, Ana muffled a breathless laugh behind her sleeve, thoroughly enjoying the complete destruction of Montgomery’s ego.

?Jullian stared at Clara for two beats, utterly stonewalled, before a helpless, rueful chuckle slipped past his lips.

?"Cold-blooded," Jullian muttered, slipping his arms into the coat with dramatic flair. "An absolute menace. If you scratch my Italian leather, I’m billing Vance-Sterling."

?The polished elevator doors slid shut on his grinning face.

?Forty minutes later, the heavy leather doors of The Obsidian Club swung open into a hazy cloud of Cuban tobacco and amber light.

?Tucked into an exclusive leather banquette in the VIP mezzanine, Jullian was busy swirling an eighteen-year-old Macallan, dramatically recounting his eviction to the room’s empty air—until the temperature in the lounge plummeted.

?Damian Sterling stepped into the private alcove.

?He had shed his corporate tie, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his black shirt, radiating enough dark, lethal menace to make the surrounding hedge fund executives discreetly request their checks.

?Damian slid into the opposite leather armchair, his jaw set like iron. "Tell me you didn’t leave them unattended."

?"Relax, Sterling," Jullian scoffed, taking a slow sip. "My building has private armed sentries on the roof, the lobby, and the service elevator. A fly couldn’t breach that penthouse without retinal clearance. Though I appreciate your concern, considering your woman and mine just treated me like an unwanted stray and kicked me out onto the street."

?Damian didn’t smile. He signaled the attendant for a double bourbon, his obsidian gaze sweeping over the low-lit lounge with restless, dark intensity.

?"She called me an emotional desert," Damian muttered, his deep baritone dripping with irritated disgust as he picked up his glass.

?Jullian choked on his ice, a bark of laughter echoing in his throat. "She called you what?!"

?"An emotional desert," Damian repeated through gritted teeth, a vein pulsing at his temple. "Said she needed ’emotionally rich’ environments to heal. As if I didn’t bleed out on a harbor dock keeping her alive."

?"I told you, Damian," Jullian wheezed, shaking his head with wicked glee. "You’re a terrifying beast on Wall Street, but to Anastasia, you’re just a giant, stubborn inconvenience with a black card. Drink your scotch and suffer like the rest of us discarded men."

?Damian ignored him, staring down into the amber liquid, his phone resting heavy against the mahogany table.

?Silence stretched between them, thick and restless.

?Fifteen minutes passed before Damian suddenly stood up, setting his half-empty glass down with a sharp clink. Without a single word of farewell to Jullian, he stepped out of the mezzanine and walked onto the terrace, the chill of the midnight rain instantly hitting his face.

?He pulled the encrypted phone from his pocket.

?It was 1:15 AM.

?His thumb hovered over Anastasia’s name. Every ounce of his ruthless pride told him to lock the screen and walk away. He was Damian Sterling. He didn’t hover. He didn’t beg for check-ins.

?His thumb hit call.

?Back in the Tribeca penthouse, the floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the glittering, rainy expanse of the Hudson River.

?Ana and Clara were curled on the massive sectional in flannel pajamas, half an empty pizza box on the marble coffee table, two glasses of Pinot Noir resting between them.

?Ana’s phone lit up on the glass with a sharp buzz.

?Damian.

?Clara paused, holding her wine glass mid-air, an eyebrow arching. "Speak of the devil. Are you going to answer?"

?Ana grabbed the phone, bracing herself for an icy interrogation about security protocols or an order to come home first thing in the morning. She swiped to accept, pressing the receiver to her ear.

?"If this is about your executive perimeter, Damian, the doors are locked," Ana said dryly.

?There was no sharp retort. No barking of orders.

?Over the receiver came the faint, hollow rush of midnight wind, followed by a low, gravelly exhale that sounded heavy with fatigue.

?"Are you safe?" Damian’s voice came through.

?It was quiet. Rough. Completely stripped of his usual mocking arrogance or towering authority.

?Ana froze on the couch, the sarcastic retort dying instantly in her throat. The rare vulnerability in his baritone caught her entirely off guard, making her chest tighten with an unexpected, sudden ache.

?"Yes," Ana answered softly, her voice dropping into a gentle cadence. "We’re safe. Jullian’s building is quiet."

?A pause lingered on the line—long, dark, and charged with words he refused to let himself say.

?"Good," Damian rumbled, his voice low against the rain. "Go to sleep, Anastasia."

?Before she could speak, the line went dead with a quiet click, leaving Ana sitting in the dim glow of the penthouse, her heart thumping against her ribs in total, breathless confusion.