Chapter 3: The Aftermath
Julian swam up from the depths of unconsciousness through a thick, suffocating haze of pain. The first thing he registered was the sterile, sharp scent of rubbing alcohol, quickly followed by the metallic taste of his own blood. He tried to open his mouth to groan, but a blinding spike of agony shot through the right side of his face, forcing his eyes open in a panic.
He was still in the foyer. The harsh glare of the crystal chandelier above stabbed at his retinas.
"Julian! Oh, thank God, Julian!" Victoria’s voice was shrill, grating against his pounding eardrums. She was kneeling beside him, her perfectly manicured hands hovering over his face, too afraid to actually touch the damage. "The paramedics are on their way. Don't move, darling. Just don't move."
Julian ignored her, forcing himself into a sitting position. The room spun violently, tilting on its axis. He pressed a hand to his jaw, his fingers grazing swollen, incredibly tender flesh. It felt wrong beneath his skin—misaligned and radiating a deep, structural ache. He spat onto the pristine marble, leaving a dark, crimson stain.
"Where is she?" Julian rasped, the words slurring awkwardly through his injured mouth.
"She’s gone," Victoria hissed, her fear rapidly metastasizing into a venomous, trembling rage. She stood up, pacing the marble floor, her heels clicking erratically. "That psychotic little bitch simply walked out the front door! I told you, Julian. I told you from the very beginning that she was nothing but low-class trash. But you wouldn't listen. You had to have the pretty little stray."
Julian didn't answer. He looked at the heavy oak doors, left slightly ajar, letting in the cool night breeze. His mind raced, struggling to stitch the fragmented memories of the last hour together. The argument. The slap. The way she had looked at him.
It was the look in her eyes that sent a sudden, icy shard of dread sliding down his spine. When he had struck her, he had expected the usual reaction: tears, submission, or at least a fiery, screaming retaliation. He hadn't expected the dead, vacuous calm. She hadn't looked at him like a victim. She had looked at him like a mathematician who had just solved a complex equation.
"Call security," Julian ordered, struggling to his feet. He swayed, grabbing the banister of the grand staircase for support. "Lock down the perimeter. Cancel her credit cards. I want her found before sunrise."
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"I've already called the gatehouse," Victoria snapped, pouring herself a generous measure of scotch from the drawing-room cart. Her hands shook so badly the crystal decanter rattled against the glass. "They said she got into a private car. She had it waiting, Julian! She planned this."
Julian stared at his mother, the throbbing in his jaw temporarily eclipsed by a sinking realization. Elena had no money of her own, or so he thought. She had no friends in the city outside of their approved social circle. And yet, she had a car waiting in the dark, slipping past their multi-million-dollar security system like a ghost. He touched his swelling face again, realizing with a sickening drop in his stomach that he didn't actually know the woman he had been sharing a bed with for the last three years.
