Chapter 3 - The Stranger in the Navy SuitBy midnight, the chaos of the Bellweather Grand had quieted into a tense, hushed silence. The guests had all cleared out, terrified of being associated with the sudden collapse of the Hale family empire.
I stood in the private elevator descending to the underground parking garage, wearing a pair of spare flats one of the hotel managers had nervously provided, while still wrapped tightly in Julian Vance’s navy suit jacket.
Julian stood beside me, his tall frame casting a long shadow under the warm elevator lights.
“You didn't have to follow me down here, Julian,” I said quietly, turning my head to look at him. “My father’s security detail is outside.”
“Your father’s security detail is busy loading Richard Hale into the back of a black sedan,” Julian replied with a faint, amused smile. “Besides, I left my car keys in the VIP lounge, and I figured walking you to your vehicle was safer than letting you face the Chicago night alone in a ruined designer skirt.”
I looked down at the stained cream blouse peeking out from beneath his jacket and couldn't help a dry, self-deprecating laugh. “Designer? It was thirty-two dollars on clearance at a boutique in Lincoln Park.”
“And yet, you wore it to one of the most exclusive charity galas in the city,” Julian noted, his dark eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Why? Most people with your last name would show up draped in diamonds and custom haute couture just to prove a point.”
“Proving points to people like Preston Hale is a waste of good fabric,” I answered smoothly, leaning against the elevator wall. “I wanted a quiet evening. I wanted to observe people without my father’s name shielding me from their true colors. I got my wish.”
“And you found out that people are generally terrible,” Julian murmured.
“Not all of them,” I said, looking up to meet his gaze. “You didn't hesitate when you stepped in front of Preston. You didn't know who I was, yet you handed me your jacket and stood between us.”
“I saw a woman being harassed by a drunken bully,” Julian said simply, his voice losing its teasing edge and dropping into something deeper, more resonant. “My mother taught me that a man’s character isn't measured by how he treats people with power, but by how he treats people he thinks have none.”
The elevator dinged softly, sliding open to reveal the subterranean parking garage.
My father’s armored Maybach was idling near the exit ramp, but my father was currently engaged in a heated phone call with his legal team by the far pillars, leaving us a few moments of quiet isolation.
Julian stepped out of the elevator first, holding out his hand to help me navigate the wet concrete floor. When his fingers brushed mine, an unexpected electric jolt shot up my arm. It wasn't the kind of spark you get from static electricity; it was a sharp, undeniable awareness.
“I suppose I should return your jacket,” I said reluctantly, though I clutched the lapels a little tighter around myself against the chill of the garage.
“Keep it,” Julian said softly, his gaze lingering on my face. “It suits you far better than it suits me anyway. Besides, I think we have unfinished business, Elena Carter.”
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“Oh? And what business is that?”
“You owe me a cup of coffee,” Julian smiled, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. “Real coffee. Not the overpriced lukewarm swill they were serving upstairs under the chandeliers.”
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