The elevator ride was silent, a vertical ascent that made Zoe's ears pop. She leaned heavily against the handrail, keeping all weight off her right foot. Every vibration of the lift sent a dull throb through her ankle.
The doors slid open directly into the apartment.
It wasn't a home; it was a fortress.
The space was vast, dominated by concrete, glass, and steel. The color palette ranged from charcoal to black. There were no family photos, no knick-knacks, no clutter. It felt like a museum exhibit titled Isolation.
Julian stepped out first. He tossed his keys into a ceramic bowl on the console table. The sharp clack echoed in the quiet room.
Zoe hesitated at the threshold of the elevator, water dripping from her coat onto the polished concrete floor.
"Stop hovering," Julian said, not looking back. He kicked off his shoes. "You're dripping on my floor."
He opened a closet and pulled out a pair of grey slide slippers. He dropped them in front of her. "Put these on."
Zoe bent down, wincing as her ankle protested. She unzipped her soaked boots and stepped into the slippers. They were massive on her feet, boats made of rubber.
"The guest room is down that hall, second door on the left," Julian said, pointing. "Bathroom is en-suite."
"Thanks," Zoe whispered. She took a step, limping badly.
Julian turned, his eyes narrowing as her struggle became apparent. "Did you break it?"
"I don't think so. Just twisted it."
He stared at her for a beat too long. His gaze felt heavy, physical. "The news says you're practically engaged to him. The 'Sterling Princess.' Yet here you are, soaking wet, injured, and alone."
Zoe flinched. She wrapped the blanket tighter around herself. "It's complicated."
"It's not complicated," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave, rough with disdain. "He's a prick. And you're a doormat."
Zoe's head snapped up. Anger, hot and sudden, cut through her misery. "I'm not a doormat. You don't know anything about us."
"I know he left you to freeze while he played nursemaid to his junkie girlfriend," Julian shot back.
Zoe opened her mouth to defend Liam, but the words died in her throat. Because it was true.
"We aren't engaged," she said softly, looking down at her feet. "That's just... the press."
Julian watched her, his expression unreadable. For a second, the hardness in his eyes seemed to fracture.
"Good," he muttered. "The gene pool thanks you."
He turned and walked toward the kitchen, a massive island of black marble. "Go shower. Unless you want pneumonia to go with the sprained ankle."
Zoe hobbled down the hallway. She found the guest room. It was stark, white, and smelled of absolutely nothing. The bed was made with military precision.
She went into the bathroom and stripped off her wet clothes. Her skin was pale, mottled blue from the cold. She turned the shower on as hot as she could stand it.
The steam filled the room. Zoe stood under the spray, letting the heat hammer against her back. She didn't cry. She was too tired to cry. She just leaned her forehead against the tile and breathed.
When she turned the water off, she realized a critical error.
She had no clothes.
Her own clothes were a sodden pile of cashmere and denim on the floor.
"Shit," she whispered.
She wrapped a large white towel around herself and cracked the door open. "Julian?"
No answer.
She took a breath to yell louder, but then she saw it.
Hanging on the door handle was a hanger. On it hung a white dress shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants.
Zoe blinked. He must have left them while she was in the shower.
She pulled them inside. The shirt was soft, high-thread-count cotton. She put it on. It swallowed her whole, the hem hitting her mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging inches past her fingers. She rolled the sleeves up, the fabric bunching around her wrists.
She brought her wrist to her nose. The shirt smelled like him. That cedar and tobacco scent. It made her heart do a strange, traitorous flip.
She pulled on the sweatpants and tied the drawstring as tight as it would go.
She walked out into the living room.
The lights were dimmed now. The storm raged against the floor-to-ceiling windows, a chaotic backdrop to the stillness inside.
Julian was standing by the glass, staring out at the white void. He held a lit cigarette in one hand, the smoke curling up around his fingers.
He looked lonely. Not the sad kind of lonely, but the powerful, chosen kind. Like a wolf patrolling the edge of his territory.
He heard her approach and turned.
His eyes swept over her. They started at her bare feet, traveled up the baggy sweatpants, and lingered on the oversized shirt that engulfed her small frame.
He took a drag of the cigarette, his eyes narrowing slightly. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
He exhaled a plume of smoke, turning his head away from her.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the leather sofa.
On the coffee table, there was a first aid kit. It was open.
"I can do it myself," Zoe said, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
"You can't reach the angle properly," Julian said. He crushed the cigarette out in a heavy crystal ashtray. "Sit down, Zoe. Before you fall down."
