The man didn’t answer immediately. He just stared at me, his gaze dropping to my trembling hands, then shifting back to my swollen eyes. The corner of his lip lifted slightly, forming a thin, cynical smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I know your husband isn’t home. He’s currently at the Hermès boutique on Madison Avenue buying a Birkin bag for my wife,” he said flatly.
My heart stopped for a beat, then restarted with a painful thud. “What?”
“I’m Julian Croft,” he said succinctly, as if the name alone explained everything.
And it did. Who didn’t know Julian Croft? The owner of Croft Enterprises, the young magnate whose face frequently graced the covers of Forbes and Fortune. He was the definition of old money—born rich, powerful, and intensely private.
But wait. What had he just said?
“Your… wife?”
“Chloe,” I murmured, the name tasting like ash. “Chloe is your wife.”
Julian nodded slowly. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look sad. His face was a mask of perfect, terrifying indifference. “May I come in? We have business to discuss, and this isn’t a conversation to be had in a doorway.”
I hesitated. Letting a strange man into the apartment when my husband wasn’t home was improper. It was dangerous. But considering what I had just learned about Mark, social norms felt like a joke. Besides, this man was a victim too. Just like me.
“Please,” I said finally, stepping aside.
Julian stepped inside. His scent washed over me as he passed—a mixture of rain, expensive tobacco, and a woody cologne that smelled like a forest after a storm. He didn’t seem impressed by our apartment’s interior, which I had once considered the height of luxury. To Julian Croft, this was probably a broom closet.
He stood in the middle of the living room, declining when I offered him a seat. His eyes swept across the room like a searchlight, landing squarely on Mark’s phone lying on the sofa.
“You know everything, don’t you?” he said, not looking at me.
“I just found out,” I answered bitterly. “His phone was left behind.”
Julian turned to face me. A flash of lightning outside illuminated half his face, casting deep shadows that made him look like a vengeful god.
“What’s your plan now? Cry? Rage? File for divorce immediately?”
“That’s none of your business,” I retorted sharply, finding a spark of defiance. “But yes, I’m divorcing him tonight. I refuse to live with a traitor for one second longer.”
“Don’t,” Julian cut in, his voice like a whip crack.
I furrowed my brow, confused and insulted. “Excuse me? Who are you to tell me what to do?”
Julian stepped closer. The distance between us evaporated. I could see the individual raindrops clinging to his eyelashes.
“Don’t divorce him tonight. Don’t cause a scene. Don’t let him know that you know,” he said, his tone one of absolute command.
“You’re insane,” I laughed, a hollow, jagged sound. “Your wife and my husband are having an affair, destroying our lives, and you’re asking me to stay silent? I am not some foolish, submissive woman who will tolerate disrespect.”
“I’m not asking you to accept the affair,” Julian said calmly, a stark contrast to my emotional turbulence. “I’m offering you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“True revenge,” Julian replied, his eyes glinting dangerously. “A divorce now will only set them free. Mark will be free to be with Chloe, and you’ll be left with nothing but a broken heart and a settlement that won’t cover your father’s debts. Is that justice?”
I fell silent. His words struck a nerve deep inside me, bypassing my anger and hitting my fear.
“Come with me now,” Julian commanded. “We’ll talk somewhere more suitable. This place reeks of him.”
“I can’t just leave with a stranger.”
“Eleanor,” he cut in, saying my name with a strange familiarity that sent a shiver down my spine. “Your family on the Upper East Side needs money. Your father has a two-million-dollar balloon payment due next month. If it’s not paid, that brownstone—your grandfather’s legacy—will be seized by the bank.”
My blood ran cold. How could he know? My family’s financial troubles were a closely guarded secret, hidden behind layers of pride and denial.
“How do you know that?”
“I know everything,” he answered with breathtaking arrogance. “Come with me, and I’ll give you a solution you never imagined. Or stay here, divorce your husband, and watch your family crumble piece by piece.”
The choice felt impossible. But looking into Julian’s eyes, which were filled with a dark, steely conviction, a glimmer of hope sparked amidst my despair.
I glanced at the open suitcase in the bedroom, then back at Julian.
“Fine,” I said softly. “I’ll go.”
Julian didn’t smile. He just gave a curt nod and turned toward the door, as if he knew from the start that I wouldn’t be able to refuse him. I grabbed my purse, locked the door to the apartment that now felt like a prison, and followed the stranger into the elevator, descending into a storm far greater than the one raging outside.
Chapter 3: The Price of Patience
The drive from Tribeca to the Financial District was eerily silent. I sat in the passenger seat of Julian’s Maybach, the interior smelling of rich leather and power. It was completely soundproof, muffling the city’s chaos into a distant hum. Julian sat beside me, engrossed in a tablet, the blue light reflecting on his sharp features. He hadn’t uttered a word since we left the lobby.
The car pulled up to a private entrance of a glass skyscraper that pierced the clouds. We were whisked up in a private elevator to a penthouse lounge that felt less like a room and more like a fortress of solitude.
Julian led me to a private corner room with glass walls offering a panoramic view of the city—a river of gold flowing through the rain.