Chapter 7 - The Midnight RevelationThe penthouse was quiet, save for the steady drumming of the rain against the glass.
Upstairs in the guest suite, Mateo had finally fallen asleep under a mountain of plush blankets, exhausted from a day of exploring the massive apartment and playing fetch with Rex, who had appointed himself the boy's official guard dog.
Downstairs, Isabel sat on the edge of the leather sofa with a mug of chamomile tea between her hands. Julian sat across from her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
"So," Isabel said softly, staring into her mug. "What happens now? Do we play happy family for the tabloids? Do you lock us in a gilded cage while you run your global empire?"
Julian shook his head firmly. "No cages. I bought a brownstone in the West Village this afternoon. It has a fenced yard for Rex, a school two blocks away, and a kitchen that actually looks like people live in it."
Isabel blinked, startled. "You bought a house? Just like that?"
"Just like that," Julian replied. "It’s yours and Mateo’s. You don't have to quit your teaching job, you don't have to rely on my allowance, and you certainly don't have to live under my roof if you aren't ready. But I want to be there. I want to pick him up from school, help him with his homework, and learn how to be the father I should have been from day one."
Isabel looked at him, searching his face for any trace of the arrogant tycoon who had dismissed her years ago. All she found was vulnerability and a quiet, desperate hope.
"You really mean that," she whispered.
"Try me," Julian said, offering a small, rare smile that made his face look years younger.
Suddenly, a sharp, urgent chime echoed from Julian’s desk. His private encrypted laptop—the one linked directly to his intelligence network—began flashing a crimson warning light.
Julian’s expression shifted instantly from warmth to razor-sharp alertness. He stood up and walked over to the desk, tapping the trackpad.
"What is it?" Isabel asked, sensing the sudden shift in the room's temperature.
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Julian stared at the monitor, his blood running cold. A secure intelligence brief had just landed from his international investigator in Zurich. It wasn't about Richard Sterling. It was about Isabel’s past—and the real reason she had fled London six years ago.
"Isabel," Julian said slowly, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as he turned to face her. "Who is Victor Vance? And why did his private security firm cross the Atlantic to land at JFK airport two hours ago?"
