The Billionaire's Secret Obsession: She Is Mine

The sharp staccato of Julianna's heels echoed against the damp concrete of the VIP underground parking garage. She had her phone pinned between her ear and her shoulder, her fingers blindly digging into the depths of her leather tote bag.

"Mom, I am not bringing Nathaniel to Thanksgiving dinner," Julianna said, her voice tight.

"Julianna, he is a perfectly good man. You are twenty-nine. You can't keep avoiding this." Her mother's voice pierced through the speaker, shrill and unyielding.

Julianna let out a harsh breath. She shoved her hand deeper into the bag, searching for her car keys. The metal teeth of the zipper bit into her index finger.

She hissed, pulling her hand back. A thin line of blood welled up on her skin. Her footsteps faltered for a fraction of a second.

From the blind spot behind a massive concrete pillar, a black Maybach glided forward. It moved like a ghost, its headlights completely dead. It slid into the exact path she was walking.

Julianna didn't look up. She was too busy sucking the blood off her finger and searching for a bandage. Her body kept moving forward on autopilot.

She slammed hard into the surprisingly warm metal of the car's hood.

The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs. She stumbled backward, her shoulder dropping. The tote bag slipped from her grasp and hit the concrete.

Everything spilled out. Pens, a compact mirror, tampons, and a tube of expensive Tom Ford lipstick clattered across the floor.

The lipstick rolled away, coming to a dead stop right beneath the massive front right tire of the Maybach.

Julianna's heart hammered against her ribs. She snapped her head up, peering through the dim, yellowed light of the garage. She waited for the driver's door to open. She waited for an apology or a curse word.

Nothing happened.

The Maybach's windows were tinted so black they looked like solid obsidian. She couldn't see a face. She could only make out the vague, broad silhouette of a man sitting behind the steering wheel.

She took a deep breath, raising her right hand in a quick, apologetic wave.

"Julianna? Are you listening to me?" her mother squawked through the phone still clutched in her hand.

Julianna hit the end button, cutting her mother off. Her cheeks burned with humiliation.

She crouched down to gather her things. As she shifted her weight, the stiletto heel of her right shoe slid perfectly into the narrow gap of a metal drainage grate.

Her ankle twisted. Her balance vanished.

She went down hard, her bare knee slamming into the abrasive concrete. A sharp, white-hot pain shot up her leg.

She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper, fighting back the sudden sting of tears. She reached out, stretching her arm toward the tire to grab her lipstick. Her fingertips brushed the concrete, falling exactly one inch short.

Suddenly, the Maybach's engine roared to life. It was a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the floorboards. It sounded like a steel beast waking up.

Julianna flinched, yanking her hand back to her chest. Her stomach dropped to her shoes. She thought the driver had lost his mind and was about to crush her hand.

But the car didn't move an inch. It just sat there, the engine idling with a heavy, rhythmic hum that filled the empty garage.

The silence from the driver was suffocating. He didn't honk. He didn't roll down the window to yell at her.

The hairs on the back of Julianna's neck stood up. She felt a heavy, invasive stare burning through that black glass, pinning her to the ground. It wasn't a casual look. It felt predatory.

She grabbed her ankle and yanked her heel free from the grate. She didn't even bother brushing the dirt off her bleeding knee. She scrambled to grab her compact and her keys, her hands shaking.

She made one last desperate grab for the lipstick. The back of her hand brushed against the warm rubber of the Maybach's tire.

A faint mechanical click echoed from inside the cabin. It sounded exactly like a seatbelt unbuckling.

Panic flared in Julianna's chest. She snatched the lipstick and shot up to her feet. She did not want to deal with whatever eccentric billionaire was sitting inside that car.

She furiously dusted off the hem of her trench coat, gave a stiff, quick bow toward the pitch-black window, and turned around.

The driver gave zero response. The air between them felt thick, almost toxic.

She started walking away, her pace frantic, limping slightly toward her Honda Civic parked three rows down.

Without warning, the Maybach's xenon headlights flashed on. The blinding white beams hit her back, casting a massive, distorted shadow of her body against the far wall.

Julianna squeezed her eyes shut against the harsh glare. She threw her arm up over her face, her feet freezing to the pavement.

Her stomach twisted. She thought he was going to demand money for a scratch on his hood. She braced herself, slowly turning around to face the blinding light.

The second she turned, the headlights snapped off.

The garage plunged back into the murky, depressing gloom. Julianna stood there, her chest heaving, staring at the dark shape of the car, completely paralyzed by the bizarre encounter.

Julianna's pulse thudded in her ears, loud and erratic. She stared at the Maybach. It sat there, completely motionless, like a predator waiting in the deep ocean.

The heavy silence shattered.

Rapid, heavy footsteps echoed from the direction of the elevator banks.

"Julianna!"

It was Orville Frye. His signature loud, grating voice bounced off the concrete walls.

Orville marched toward her, a scowl already forming on his face. He held two iced Americanos from Starbucks, the dark liquid sloshing dangerously close to the plastic lids with every aggressive stride he took.

He stopped in front of her, his eyes dropping to the dirt and blood on her knee, then to her awkward stance. His jaw tightened. He instantly assumed the driver of the luxury car had hit her and refused to get out.

"Hey!" Orville barked, stepping directly in front of Julianna. He reached out, his arm wrapping heavily around her shoulders, pulling her flush against his side in a protective, overly familiar gesture.

Julianna stiffened. The sudden physical contact made her skin crawl. She instinctively twisted her shoulder, trying to subtly break his grip.

Inside the Maybach, the driver reacted.

The headlights blasted on again. This time, the high beams hit them with the force of a physical blow. The blinding light locked dead onto Orville's hand where it rested on Julianna's shoulder.

Julianna turned her face away, blinded.

Orville snapped.

He dropped his arm from her shoulder, shoved one of the sweating coffee cups into her chest, and stormed toward the driver's side window.

"Are you out of your mind?" Orville slammed his open palm against the reinforced glass. "Do you not know how to drive in New York?"

The window didn't roll all the way down. It lowered exactly two inches.

A blast of freezing air-conditioning poured out from the narrow gap. And with it came a scent.

It was a sharp, biting wave of cedarwood mixed with something cold and masculine.

Julianna inhaled, and her brain short-circuited.

A violent, electric shock of familiarity ripped through her chest. Her lungs seized.

She jerked her head up, staring at that two-inch gap, desperate to see the face inside.

But Orville's broad back blocked her view completely. All she could see was a single hand resting on the steering wheel. The knuckles were bone-white, gripping the leather so hard it looked like the steering column might snap.

The man inside didn't say a single word. He just looked at Orville.

Even from where she stood, Julianna could feel the weight of that stare. It was a look of absolute, lethal indifference.

Orville's mouth opened to yell again, but the words died in his throat. He took a tiny step back.

The window slid up. The glass sealed shut with a soft thud, cutting off the scent of cedarwood entirely.

The Maybach slammed into reverse. The tires shrieked against the concrete, burning rubber.

The massive car whipped backward in a violent, aggressive arc. The side mirror missed Orville's suit jacket by less than an inch. A rush of cold wind hit them as the car spun around.

The red taillights blurred into a streak as the car shot up the exit ramp and disappeared into the Manhattan night.

Orville let out a shaky breath, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. He flipped off the empty ramp. "Wall Street psycho."

Julianna stood frozen. Her fingers gripped the plastic coffee cup so hard the sides began to buckle. Her hands were shaking.

That smell. That exact scent of cedarwood. It clawed at the walls of her memory, dragging up the ghost of a man who had walked out of her life eight years ago.

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head hard. No. Stop it. She forced the ridiculous thought out of her mind. He was in Europe. He wasn't in a Maybach in midtown Manhattan.

Orville turned back to her, his bravado returning. "Are you okay? Did he hit you?" He reached out to touch her arm again.

Julianna took a smooth half-step backward, perfectly evading his hand. She forced a tight, polite smile. "I'm fine. I just tripped."

Orville frowned but didn't push it. He fell into step beside her as they walked toward the elevators. "Good. Because we need to talk about the photographer for the anniversary issue. You can't keep stalling."

On the twelfth floor of the publishing group's headquarters, the conference room felt like a war zone.

Orville slammed a massive, hardcover art book by the late Silas Thorne onto the glass table. The heavy thud made Julianna wince.

She rubbed her throbbing temples. "Orville, the budget is over by two hundred percent. We don't have the money."

Orville leaned over the table, planting both hands on the glass. "You cannot compromise on art, Julianna. This is Silas Thorne."

Julianna didn't blink. She flipped open the financial report, uncapped a red pen, and aggressively circled the massive deficit at the bottom of the page. "I'm not compromising on art. I'm telling you we are broke. Your vision is a financial suicide mission."

"You are a corporate machine," Orville spat, his face turning red. "You don't understand the creative process at all."

He snatched the art book off the table, turned on his heel, and slammed the glass door behind him.

Julianna slumped back into her ergonomic chair, the fight draining out of her. She closed her eyes, the headache behind them pulsing with every heartbeat.

Fifty-eight floors above her, in the executive penthouse suite, the temperature in the room was cold enough to freeze blood.

Brent Aguilar, the Vice President of the publishing group, pushed open the double walnut doors. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and a politician's practiced, hollow smile.

Aidan Caldwell stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to the room. He wore a dark grey bespoke suit that fit his broad shoulders flawlessly. He held an unlit cigar between his fingers. He looked like a king surveying his empire.

"Aidan," Brent said, his voice dripping with forced familiarity. He walked forward, extending his right hand. "Welcome back to New York. It's an honor to have Europe's top architectural consultant looking at our building."

Aidan turned around slowly. His eyes, dark and bottomless, dropped to Brent's outstretched hand. He stared at it for three agonizing seconds. He made absolutely no move to take it.

Brent's smile faltered. He awkwardly pulled his hand back and wiped his palm against his trousers, his chest tightening with sudden anxiety.

Aidan walked past him and sat down on the center leather sofa. He crossed his long legs, resting his ankle on his knee. His posture was relaxed, but the energy radiating off him was suffocating.

He tossed the unlit cigar onto the glass coffee table. "Where are the structural assessment files?" His voice was a low, rough rasp that demanded immediate compliance.

Brent hurried over to the wet bar. He needed to do something with his hands. He grabbed two crystal tumblers. The ice clinked loudly against the glass as he poured two generous measures of expensive Macallan whiskey.

He walked back and slid one of the tumblers across the table toward Aidan. "We have them ready. But come on, man. It's been years. We should catch up."

Aidan stared at the amber liquid swirling in the glass. His expression was unreadable. He picked up the tumbler but didn't bring it to his lips. Instead, his thumb slowly traced the cut-glass pattern on the side.

Brent swallowed hard, pushing his luck. "I saw the Pritzker nomination. Congratulations. I have to ask, though... why leave Paris? Why take a boring consulting gig for a publishing building in New York?"

Aidan's thumb stopped moving. A dark, violent shadow crossed his eyes.

He slowly lifted his head. His gaze cut through Brent's fake smile like a scalpel.

"Some assets are more valuable than buildings," Aidan said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Did you think I'd forgotten what was mine? That there was nothing left in New York worth coming back to claim?"

Brent's face froze. The blood drained from his cheeks. His hand trembled, and a single drop of whiskey spilled over the rim of his glass, splashing onto his knuckles.

The rich smell of the alcohol filled the air, mixing with the sudden, heavy tension that felt like a loaded gun pointed at Brent's chest.

Brent quickly took a massive gulp of his drink. He looked at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but Aidan's eyes. "I... I don't know what you mean."

Aidan slammed his untouched glass down onto the table. The heavy thud echoed through the massive room.

He stood up, towering over Brent. "I'm taking over the project."

He didn't wait for an answer. He turned his back on Brent and walked straight out the double doors.