CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The first thing I felt when I woke up was warmth. Soft sheets clung to my body, and the faint scent of cedar and something darker—something undeniably Julien—wrapped around me. The second thing I noticed was him.
Julien sat beside me, a tray balanced on his lap, his sharp green eyes watching me with an intensity that made my breath hitch. He wore only a loose gray t-shirt and black sweatpants, his damp hair suggesting he had been up for a while. He smiled, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment.
"Good morning," he murmured.
My gaze dropped to the tray in his hands. A steaming plate of golden-brown French toast drizzled with syrup, scrambled eggs speckled with fresh herbs, and crispy bacon arranged in neat strips. Beside the plate was a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a cup of black coffee, the scent rich and inviting.
I blinked, momentarily thrown by the gesture.
"You made this?" My voice was hoarse from sleep.
Julien chuckled. "Don't look so surprised. This is not my first time handling your breakfast." He set the tray on my lap and reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "Eat. You didn't at anything all through yesterday."
I hesitated for only a second before picking up my fork. The first bite of French toast melted on my tongue, warm with cinnamon and just the right amount of sweetness.
Julien leaned back, satisfied, before stretching and pushing himself up from the bed. "I'm going to take a shower. Eat as much as you want."
I nodded, chewing slowly as he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water following soon after.
The moment the door clicked shut, I set the tray aside, suddenly losing my appetite. Something about last night still nagged at me—the dream, or memory, or whatever it was. The sensation of falling. The impact. The blood. It clung to me like a shadow, refusing to fade.
I shook my head, willing myself to focus on the present. That was when I saw it.
A small wooden box, carelessly tossed into the open drawer of the bedside table.
I frowned. Julien wasn't the type to leave things out of place. Everything in his space was intentional, calculated.
Curiosity prickled at me.
I set the tray aside and slipped out of bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. My fingers curled around the box as I lifted it out of the drawer. It was heavier than it looked, the wood cool and smooth under my touch.
A lock.
Of course.
Biting my lip, I traced the small keypad that required a four-digit pin. Instinct took over. I typed the first thing that came to mind.
The day Julien asked me to prom.
A soft click echoed in the quiet room.
My breath caught as the lid popped open.
The box was empty.
No, not completely.
Nestled at the bottom, almost blending into the dark wood, was a small white notepad.
I pulled it out, flipping it open to the first page.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Madison's.
My pulse quickened as my eyes scanned the first line.
"My husband hates me."
My grip on the notepad tightened.
I flipped to the next page.
"No, he despises me, and he doesn't even hide it."
A cold wave washed over me, my fingers trembling as I turned to the next entry.
The words on the fifth page stole the breath from my lungs.
"He threatened to kill me."
The world around me blurred, the weight of those words pressing against my chest like a crushing force. My stomach twisted, bile rising in my throat.
Madison had written this. My sister. The sister I was pretending to be. The sister whose blood I had found smeared across a hotel room.
The sister who was missing.
A sharp prickling sensation crawled up my spine, an instinctual warning.
I lifted my head, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Julien stood in the doorway.
His shirt clung to his damp skin, water dripping from his dark hair. He wasn't smirking. He wasn't teasing.
He was just watching me.
Staring.
His green eyes locked onto mine, unreadable. Unforgiving.
His gaze pinned on me, watching me, felt like he knew I had uncovered one of his dirtiest secret. It sent shivers running down my spine.