Chapter 8 - The Price of Possession
Julian’s breath caught in his throat with a sharp, audible gasp.
His gaze darted past Rhett’s broad shoulder, peering through the kitchen archway into the gloom. There, curled on the linoleum beneath the heavy black cashmere coat that Julian recognized from executive board meetings, was Isa. He saw the torn blouse, the bruised temple, the dislocated shoulder, and the sheer, unadulterated terror in her wide brown eyes.
For a split second, Julian’s aristocratic arrogance—the deep, pathological entitlement that had defined his entire life—threatened to resurface. He straightened his spine, trying desperately to project the authority of a wealthy husband asserting his domestic rights.
“Don Valin, please… listen to me,” Julian pleaded, his voice gaining a desperate, frantic momentum. “You don't understand. That woman is my legal wife. Her real name is Isabelle Cross. She has been diagnosed with severe psychiatric instability! She stole two hundred thousand dollars from our joint estate in Lake Forest eighteen months ago and disappeared! I have been searching for her tirelessly, trying to bring her home to her family, to get her the medical care she desperately needs!”
He took a half-step forward, his hands gesturing toward the kitchen, appealing to the Don as an equal in high society.
“She’s a liar, Rhett,” Julian hissed, dropping the formal title in his desperation. “She took a job as your maid to hide from the courts! She’s using your name as a shield! This is a private, domestic matter between a husband and a wife. You have no standing here. If you just step aside and let me take her to our physician in Lake Forest, I will ensure this entire embarrassing incident never leaves this room.”
Rhett did not move an inch. He listened to the entire monologue with the cold, scientific detachment of an entomologist studying a beetle pinned to a board.
When Julian finished speaking, the silence that fell over the apartment was heavy enough to crush bone.
“Two hundred thousand dollars,” Rhett repeated softly.
Julian nodded eagerly, a pathetic spark of hope lighting his blue eyes. “Yes! From our private safe!”
“She lives in a four-hundred-dollar walk-up on Damen Avenue, Julian,” Rhett murmured, his voice silky, calm, and terrifyingly clear. “She rides the blue line at five in the morning. She buys day-old bread from the market on 18th Street. For fourteen months, she has saved forty dollars a week in an envelope beneath her mattress.”
Rhett took a single, slow step forward.
His polished dress shoe came down onto the linoleum with a heavy, final thud. Julian flinched violently, his back pressing hard against the doorframe, his breathing turning into ragged, shallow gasps as Rhett closed the distance between them until their chests were merely inches apart.
“You didn't come here for money, Julian,” Rhett whispered into his face, his voice carrying the scent of dark cedar and lethal violence. “You came here because a bird slipped out of your cage, and your small, pathetic ego couldn't survive knowing she chose to scrub my floors rather than let you touch her skin.”
Julian’s mouth worked soundlessly, his skin turning from pale to a sickly gray. “Don Valin… she’s my wife… under the law—”
“The law?” Rhett interrupted, his sculpted lips curling into a faint, terrifying smile that promised total annihilation.
Rhett’s left hand shot out like an iron piston.
May you like
He did not strike Julian. He simply caught the camel-wool lapels of Julian’s expensive coat, his calloused, tattooed fingers twisting the heavy fabric until Julian was lifted three inches off the floorboards, his toes dangling in the draft. Julian dropped the paper bakery bag; it hit the floor with a soft thud, spilling warm pastries across the linoleum.
“In this city, Julian,” Rhett whispered into his ear, his voice dropping into a register of pure, unholy execution, “I am the law. And you have just committed high treason against my house.”
