Chapter 301

[ 895 words ]

Julian’s POV

He still wanted the telemetry assets. I had heard it underneath every word he said to me that night, the calculation running quietly beneath the pain, the way he kept circling back to what Katia’s company was worth even while trying to convince me he had nothing left to negotiate with.

Men like Jude Wolfe did not stop wanting things because they had been humiliated. They recalibrated. They found a softer approach and a better angle, and an apology delivered on one knee with a bunch of white roses was exactly the kind of recalibration I should have predicted from him days ago.

I should have known he would try this.

I thought about calling Marcus and asking him to find out what Jude had been doing since the warehouse, whether he had already made contact with Katia, and what version of himself he was planning to bring to that dinner table. Then I decided against it. I would see for myself this weekend, sitting across from him, watching exactly how he behaved in front of her family and exactly how she responded to it.

Delia believed she had handed me an invitation I would refuse out of spite or indifference.

She had no idea what she had actually just done.

My phone sat on the mahogany surface of my desk like a live grenade.

I stared at the screen, the backlight illuminating the missed call notification for the fifth time in less than twenty minutes. Katia was not answering. She was ignoring me, and the cold, sharp blade of my fury was beginning to carve out the space where my patience usually sat.

I picked the device up, my thumb hovering over the screen, and typed a single question.

Where are you sleeping tonight?

I didn’t have to wait long. The bubble popped up almost instantly, a sterile, digital betrayal that felt colder than ice.

I’m sorry, Julian. I want to give my husband and I a chance.

The room went silent. Not the quiet of a house settling, but the dead, absolute silence of a vacuum. I read the words again, letting them sink into the marrow of my bones. She wanted to give Jude Wolfe a chance. She was sitting in a hotel suite somewhere, playing house with a man who isn’t her husband, while she belonged to me.

She belonged to my house, to my bed, and to the history we had spent years carving into each other.

I didn’t bother calling again. I stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the hardwood, and strode out of my study. I didn’t need to ask my security team where she was. I already knew. The Whitmore Manhattan. Jude Wolfe’s temporary stay. The only place in this city a man like him would think he was safe enough to hide my wife.

The drive to the hotel was a blur of aggressive maneuvering and suppressed violence. I pushed my car through the city streets as if the tarmac were a physical barrier I could simply shatter. I didn’t care about the lights or the other drivers; I cared only about the distance between me and the room where she was pretending to build a life with a man who was nothing more than a scam.

When I reached the Whitmore, I didn’t wait for a concierge or an escort. I moved through the lobby with a single-minded purpose, my stride long and heavy, my face a mask of iron. The staff didn’t stop me. They knew a Windsor when they saw one, and they knew better than to stand in the way of a storm.

I reached the suite and punched the code into the lock—a bypass override.

The suite was dimly lit, the scent of expensive cologne and artificial hotel air clashing in the hallway. I found them in the living area. Jude was there, his expression turning from surprise to defensive rage the moment he saw me. And there was Katia. She was standing by the window, clutching a glass of water, her eyes widening as she locked onto my gaze.

I didn’t look at him. He didn’t matter. He was a footnote, a temporary inconvenience I would erase from the narrative entirely. I looked only at her.

“Julian,” she whispered, the name falling out of her like a prayer.

“We are leaving,” I said. My voice was low, devoid of negotiation, a statement of fact that carried the weight of a death sentence.

“You can’t just walk in here,” Jude began, taking a step forward.

I turned my head, my eyes locking onto his with enough lethal force to make him falter. “Sit down, Wolfe. Unless you want to spend the rest of the night explaining to your security team why you’re unconscious on the carpet p>

He hesitated, the smart part of his brain warring with his ego. I didn’t wait for the resolution. I walked to Katia, reached out, and gripped her hand. My hold was firm, bordering on bruising, a claim that communicated everything I wasn’t saying out loud.

“Come,” I said, pulling her toward the door. She didn’t fight me. She didn’t pull away. She moved with me, her heels clicking against the marble, her gaze fixed on the back of my head as I hauled her out of that tomb and into the elevator.

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