Chapter 319

[ 958 words ]

Jude’s POV

The restroom of the Obsidian Lounge was a room of black marble, frosted glass, and polished chrome. It was empty when I walked in, thank God. I needed a second. I needed to breathe without Julian Windsor’s gaze boring holes into my skull.

Did he know? The thought clawed at my brain. The way he spoke about the firestone, the way he looked at me like I was a bug under a glass slide—it was too precise. He was playing with me, baiting me, waiting for me to trip over the mountain of lies I had built to claim Katia.

The door clicked open behind me.

The air in the room simply grew heavier as Julian walked in. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t look at me. He just walked up to the adjacent marble urinal, completely unbothered, as if we were two normal men sharing a casual drink instead of two wolves circling the same bloodied piece of meat.

My stomach twisted into a tight knot of pure tension. I couldn’t let him see me rattle. I had to maintain the illusion of absolute confidence, the posture of a man who belonged exactly where he was standing.

I unzipped my trousers. Julian did the same beside me.

I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead on the black marble wall, trying to focus on completing the task so I could get the hell out of this room. But a man’s peripheral vision is a treacherous thing, and in a space this quiet, with a man that dangerous standing inches away, it was impossible not to notice.

My eyes flicked sideways. Just a casual, instinctive glance.

And then my brain completely stopped working.

My breath hitched in my throat, my hand freezing entirely against my zipper. My eyes went wide, stretching so wide they felt like they were going to pop right out of my skull.

Jesus Christ!

Julian stood there, relaxed, one hand resting casually against the marble wall above him, completely indifferent to the absolute monstrosity he had just unveiled. It was massive. A thick, heavy, terrifyingly large cock that looked less like human anatomy and more like a weapon designed to tear a woman apart. Even flaccid, it possessed a thick, vascular weight that seemed to defy the laws of nature, hanging heavy and brutal against his thighs. It was a genetic anomaly, something built out of pure, raw fucking dominance.

I looked at it, my mind racing through a chaotic loop of shock, denial, and sheer, unvarnished horror. It was huge. It was thick. It was… it was entirely unfair.

Julian glanced down at me, his face showing absolutely no emotion, completely unbothered by my blatant staring.

“Nice dick,” Julian said.

The words cut through the silence of the room, blunt and dry. He wasn’t threatened; he was just making a casual observation, the way a king might comment on a peasant’s small plot of land.

The sheer mockery of it broke my filter. My jaw dropped further, my eyes jumping between his face and the heavy weight hanging between his legs.

“That’s one hell of a fat cock, Windsor.” I breathed out, the words escaping before I could stop them, my voice tight with a mixture of shock and involuntary respect.

Julian didn’t look pleased or proud; he just gave a single, barely perceptible nod, accepting the statement as a basic fact of reality.

Instinctively, helplessly, my eyes darted back down to my own lap.

I had never considered myself small. In the world I came from, I was perfectly average, standard, and entirely functional. But standing next to Julian Windsor, looking down at my own dick, a wave of profound, crushing humiliation washed over me. My own cock looked small, pathetic, almost comical—like a child’s toy placed next to a heavy piece of industrial machinery. It was a joke.

A thought hit me, sharp and bitter, dripping with a sudden, resentful fury: God really was stingy to me when it came to a dick.

I stepped out of the Obsidian Lounge into the cold night air and walked half a block before I trusted my hands enough to pull out my phone.

The street was mostly empty at this hour, just the occasional taxi sliding past and a doorman two buildings down stamping his feet against the cold. I leaned against the stone facade of a closed boutique and tried to slow my breathing before I dialed, because I did not want him to hear anything in my voice that he could use against me later.

I dialed the number from memory. I had never saved it under a name, never trusted a phone enough to leave a trace of who he actually was, not after everything he had told me about the kind of people who might come looking if this arrangement ever unraveled in the wrong direction.

It picked up on the second ring.

“Talk to me,” the voice said.

“Windsor is not making this easy,” I said, keeping my voice low, my eyes scanning the street out of habit more than necessity. “I think he might have a clue. About me. About who I actually am to her. I think he might know I am not her husband p>

There was a pause on the other end, slow and unbothered, the kind of silence that belonged to a man who had never once in his life felt rushed by anyone else’s panic. I had grown to hate that silence over the past several months. It told me nothing about what he was thinking, and I had learned the hard way that filling it myself only made me sound desperate.

“What makes you think that?” the voice said finally.

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