Chapter 4

The ride back to the penthouse was silent. The air in the car was thick with unspoken words. Julianne stared out the window, her face a pale, emotionless mask. Demetrius drove, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

He finally broke the silence, his voice low and hesitant. "I'm sorry, Julianne."

She didn't look at him.

"Cayla... she has a history," he tried to explain. "She had a... a bad experience a few years ago. Crowds, sirens... they trigger her panic attacks. I had to get her out."

Julianne had never heard him use that tone before. It wasn't the resentful tone of a kept man, nor the confident tone of an artist. It was the pleading tone of someone trying to justify an unforgivable act.

It didn't matter. She understood his priorities perfectly. Cayla was his real concern. She was just his benefactor, a business arrangement he no longer needed.

"It's fine," she said, her voice light and dismissive. "I'm sure she was very frightened." She felt a flicker of dark amusement. "You probably love her a great deal to protect her like that."

The word "love" hung in the air between them.

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped, his guilt turning to anger. "It's not love. It's... responsibility."

Responsibility. That's what he called his devotion to Cayla. And what was she? An investment? A project?

Julianne almost smiled. She was tired of the games, tired of the lies. She just wanted it to be over. She looked forward to the end of their contract.

When they arrived at the penthouse, Demetrius helped her out of the car, his touch surprisingly gentle. He guided her to the sofa and knelt to examine her swollen ankle.

He was surprisingly careful as he cleaned the scrapes and applied a cold compress. His movements were deft and focused, the way a painter's hands would be. It was a strange, fleeting moment of tenderness in the ruins of their relationship.

Just then, his phone rang, shattering the quiet.

He glanced at the screen. It was Cayla. His expression immediately softened with concern.

Julianne saw the name on the screen. She felt nothing but a weary sense of inevitability.

"You should go," she said, her voice flat. "She probably needs you."

Demetrius hesitated. "We were supposed to have dinner tonight. To talk before the... before tomorrow." The word "wedding" died on his lips.

"I'm giving you permission to leave, Demetrius," she said, a strange, almost cruel smile playing on her lips. "Go. Be with her."

He looked at her, stunned by her sudden generosity. He had expected accusations, anger, tears. This cool dismissal was more unsettling than any fight.

"I'm just tired," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "Go on."

He stood up, his face a mixture of relief and confusion. He grabbed his jacket.

"I'll be back later," he said.

"Don't bother," she replied, not looking at him.

He left without another word.

Julianne stared at the closed door. She didn't ask where he was going. She didn't care.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the dull throb in her ankle. It was a clean, physical pain. It was so much easier to handle than the mess of the last four years.