Chapter 2
1613words
Julian sits in the most secluded corner booth, having just wrapped up a meeting. His gaze, however, remains firmly locked on the solitary figure at the bar.
It's Chloe.
She's wearing a dress he's never seen before—one that's uncharacteristically revealing—and knocking back tequila shots one after another.
Even from this distance, he'd recognize her anywhere. He's spent five years training himself to view her photos in financial magazines and society pages with the same detached gaze he uses to review quarterly reports. Chloe Carter, his sister in name, now the perfect wife of Daniel Reed. A name, a symbol.
But seeing her in person, all his carefully constructed defenses crumble in an instant.
The flashbacks that assault his mind aren't of her tear-stained face that he shattered with his own cruelty during her coming-of-age ceremony. Instead, they're fragments from earlier times—softer memories.
Summer, when he was thirteen, teaching her to ride a bicycle. Her small hands clutching his shirt with complete trust as she laughed wildly, sweat dampening her bangs.
A winter night when he was sixteen, both of them curled under the same thick woolen blanket before the fireplace, secretly sharing a bottle of their father's expensive Bordeaux. Her tipsy cheeks glowed with a beautiful flush as she whispered those mundane yet somehow hilarious school secrets.
They were once so close. Close enough to hear each other's heartbeats, close enough to believe they would be each other's anchor forever.
Until her eighteenth birthday ceremony. She wore a white chiffon dress, standing against the backdrop of the dazzling city skyline, and said to him, "I like you." And he—twenty-year-old Julian, a proud, arrogant fool with his ego freshly wounded by those "Child Groom" whispers—used the coldest, sharpest words to sever all bonds between them.
He thought it was for the best. He thought by pushing her away, he was setting her free to soar toward broader, safer horizons.
But the scene before his eyes now feels like a resounding slap across his face.
The girl he pushed away with his own hands is now like a broken doll, being crushed by cheap tequila and some unknown suffering.
At that moment, two men with obvious predatory intentions approach Chloe, drinks in hand. Their leering gazes stick to her exposed back like flies, and one already reaches toward her shoulder.
In that instant, Julian's blood freezes.
What follows is a volcanic eruption of fury, mixed with heartache and self-loathing.
Look what you've done, Julian.
You pushed her away for your pathetic pride, and now left her vulnerable to these… vultures.
You failed. Your "protection" has utterly failed.
He's on his feet in an instant, his towering figure radiating menace, and within seconds he's at the bar. He doesn't even glance at the two men—just reaches out and clamps his hand around the wrist of the one about to touch Chloe.
"Ah——!"
With a scream like breaking bone, the man drops to his knees.
"Get out." Julian spits the words, his predatory ferocity sending the other man fleeing in terror.
Chloe, dulled by alcohol, reacts slowly. She raises hazy eyes to the tall, straight-backed figure who's suddenly materialized beside her. Backlit, she can't make out his face clearly—only that his silhouette is achingly familiar, familiar enough to make her feel safe.
Then, she catches his scent.
It's the scent she was obsessed with in her youth, a scent uniquely his—pine and sandalwood, with hints of rich leather.
"…Julian?" She calls out uncertainly, tentatively.
This name, like a key, unlocks the floodgates of her emotions.
In the next moment, all the grief and pain she's bottled up throughout the night bursts forth like a breaking dam. Without hesitation, she throws herself into his arms, burying her face in his expensive suit jacket like a small animal that's been lost too long in a storm and finally caught the scent of home.
This embrace, for Julian, is nothing short of a nuclear explosion.
This is the scene he's fantasized about for countless nights, yet used all his strength to avoid.
He stands frozen. He feels the soft, trembling body in his arms; smells the intoxicating fragrance of her hair, mingled with tequila and her unique scent.
This body—he once knew it so well he could trace every contour with his eyes closed. He remembers which part of her knee would redden first when she fell, which side of his sleeve she'd instinctively grab during horror movies.
But now, there are five years of deliberate estrangement between them, a man named Daniel Reed, and an irreparable wound he created with his own hands.
Finally, he slowly raises his hand with an almost rigid gentleness and places it lightly on her back.
As if he's finally found the most precious treasure he lost five years ago.
He half-carries, half-supports her out of the bar. When the night breeze hits, she becomes even more limp, almost completely hanging onto him. He doesn't take her to any of the "homes" where they once lived together—neither her current apartment nor her parents' mansion. Those places are filled with false identities and suffocating memories.
A hotel. A neutral, vacuum-like space belonging neither to their past nor their future.
It's the only option he can think of right now.
He gently lays her on the soft, king-sized bed, removing the stilettos that had made her unsteady. Her ankle, beneath his large palm, feels exceptionally slender and fragile.
He stands, takes out his phone, preparing to call his female assistant. To have her come over, take care of Chloe, help her change, and ensure she's safe. This is the rational, appropriate course of action. It's what he, as a "brother," should do.
He walks past the bed with restraint, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
Just as he passes, a soft, cool hand suddenly grabs his wrist.
He stops and turns to look at her.
Chloe has opened her eyes, tears sliding down silently like pearls from a broken string. She lies there, looking up at him, her gaze as vulnerable as an abandoned fawn.
"Am I…" she sobs, her voice feather-light, "am I really that unattractive? So… so he would rather…" she seems unable to continue, muttering incoherently, "…he would rather be with a man, with Leo…"
A man? Leo?!
Julian feels an icy chill shoot from the soles of his feet straight to the crown of his head, his brain momentarily short-circuiting from this utterly vile revelation.
Daniel… and Leo?
That overwhelming sense of guilt and rage, sharper than any blade, nearly tears him apart on the spot.
Unattractive? You?
You who, at eighteen, first taught me what desire truly was? You who, for five years, left me spending countless sleepless nights secretly sketching your face in the darkness of my studio?
He took you—the treasure I pushed away with my own hands, my only precious treasure—and claimed you as his own. Then he tossed you aside like garbage to fool around with your own brother.
It was me. Julian, it was me who plunged you into this hell. It was me, this bastard, who handed you over to an even worse bastard with my own hands.
He crouches down, the immense shock and heartache making it almost impossible to breathe. He reaches out, gently wiping away the tears on her cheeks with his fingertips, his movements as tender as if he's touching a priceless treasure shattered by his own mistake.
"Stop crying," his voice terribly hoarse.
He brushes her tear-dampened hair behind her ear, his fingertips inadvertently grazing her small, soft earlobe. That delicate, smooth sensation causes years of suppressed desire and emotion to erupt like a volcano within him.
He yanks his hand away, stands up, ready to flee this room that's driving him to the brink of madness.
"Don't go…"
From behind comes her sweet, soft plea tinged with tears.
He turns to see she's somehow sat up on the bed and is reaching out her hand, looking at him with pleading eyes. Seeing him stop, she even moves her cheek forward, gently nuzzling against his large hand that still retains her warmth.
This small gesture completely obliterates Julian's last line of defense.
He turns and walks back to her, looking down at her from above. His gaze darkens, becoming profound as a bottomless abyss filled with dangerous currents.
"Do you really want me to stay?" he asks deliberately, his voice deep and dangerous. "Chloe, don't blame me… for what happens next."
Chloe, with her alcohol-hazed eyes, seems not to understand the warning in his words, but is just relieved he isn't leaving. She nods firmly in her confused state.
Looking at her innocent, bewildered expression, Julian reaches out and once again caresses her cheek, his thumb slowly, deliberately tracing her reddened lips.
He lowers his head, his lips almost touching her ear, and in a voice dark as sin, meant only for her, he asks hoarsely:
"That man made you feel like you have no charm."
"Do you want to know…" he pauses, each word carrying a decade of pent-up desire from his burning throat, branding itself onto the shell of her ear, "…how hot a man can make you when he truly wants you?"
Chloe suddenly raises her head, looking into his bottomless eyes with bewilderment and confusion.
A few seconds later, she seems to give up thinking—or perhaps it's an instinctive surrender, like smashing a pot that's already cracked. In a very soft, almost inaudible voice, she utters two words:
"Teach me."
