The scent of smoke still clung to Savannah's hair as she stood outside the penthouse balcony, arms crossed against the chill. Manhattan glittered beneath her, oblivious to the fire that had licked its way through the shadows of her evening, or the man now silently watching her from the threshold.
Julian Thorne.
Not a savior. Not a hero.
Just a man with too many secrets and the power to unravel everything she'd spent years rebuilding.
He didn't speak at first. Just leaned against the doorframe, sleeves rolled up, a glass of something dark and expensive in his hand. The flames had stolen the softness from his usual polish—his tie was gone, shirt slightly unbuttoned, hair a little messy.
Too human.
Too dangerous.
"You should be resting," he said finally, his voice low, scraping over her nerves like velvet over broken glass.
Savannah didn't turn. "Funny. I was about to say the same to you."
The silence stretched like a rubber band between them, taut with unspoken accusations and the things neither of them dared to voice.
"You could've died in there." His tone was neutral, but his knuckles whitened around the glass.
"But I didn't." She finally turned, eyes sharp. "So, what? You expect gratitude? A thank-you card? A kiss for the knight in shining armor?"
His jaw clenched. "I didn't do it for thanks."
"No," she agreed coolly, stepping closer. "You did it because Damien was watching. Because it would've looked bad if you let me burn while your brother stood there enjoying the show."
Mentioning Damien shifted the air. Julian stiffened, the darkness in his gaze deepening.
"He's gone."
"Fired or disappeared?"
Julian didn't answer right away. Instead, he downed the rest of his drink and set the glass aside.
"He's been dealt with," he said at last, voice clipped. "You won't have to worry about him again."
Savannah folded her arms tighter. "That's not a comfort. That's a warning wrapped in silk."
Julian stepped forward then, slow and deliberate, until the city lights painted harsh shadows across his face. "You think I'm like him?"
"I think you're all dangerous," she whispered. "And I don't trust men who smile like wolves."
Julian's lips twitched into a humorless smile. "Fair enough. But I didn't light that fire."
"No, but you sure as hell built the stage."
He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, then glanced past her toward the skyline.
"I've made mistakes," he admitted. "But I'm not Damien."
"No," she said softly. "You're worse. Because at least with him, the mask is clear. With you, I can't tell when I'm about to get burned."
Their eyes locked, neither flinching. The wind swept around them, carrying with it the faint trace of ash and something more dangerous: temptation.
Savannah took a step back. "Why am I still here, Julian?"
"Because the alternative is more dangerous."
"That sounds like a threat."
"It's a fact." His voice dropped an octave. "Someone wanted you dead tonight. If not for me, you'd be—"
"I didn't ask for your protection."
"No," he agreed. "But you have it anyway."
She hated the way her heart stuttered at those words. Hated how safe she'd felt in his arms, even if only for a moment. It didn't matter. Safety, like loyalty, was always temporary in their world.
"Tell me something," she said, tilting her head. "When you handed your brother over to your lawyers, did you hesitate?"
Julian's expression shuttered. "Not for a second."
"Cold."
"Necessary."
There it was again—that brutal, steel-edged clarity he wielded like a weapon. And beneath it, something softer. Something broken. Savannah saw it flicker and vanish.
"I need the truth, Julian. About everything."
"And if it changes how you see me?"
"It already has."
He exhaled. The kind of sound that hinted at cracks beneath armor no one else got close enough to see.
"Come inside," he said. "It's not safe out here."
She arched a brow. "Are you afraid someone's going to push me over the edge?"
"I'm afraid you'll jump," he murmured.
Their eyes met again, the space between them electric with things unsaid.
"I don't jump," she said. "I fight."
A ghost of a smile curved his mouth. "Good."
She didn't move.
He didn't either.
A war without a single weapon drawn.
"Fine," she said, brushing past him with the elegance of a queen who refused to bow. "But if you're going to hide something from me, at least be smart enough to lie well."
Inside, the penthouse was pristine, save for the faint scent of smoke clinging to the air. Ava had stayed behind at the hospital to deal with the reporters, her text short and blunt: You're not alone. But be careful. He wants something.
Savannah sat on the edge of the sofa, scanning the room. She could feel his presence behind her before he even spoke.
"You should sleep."
She glanced up. "Is that an order, Mr. Thorne?"
Julian's lips twitched. "Would you obey if it were?"
"Try me."
The silence between them settled into something thicker—something weighted with tension and curiosity and all the wrong kinds of desire.
"Why did you become a journalist?" he asked, surprising her.
Savannah blinked, caught off guard. "Excuse me?"
"I'm curious. Your family's old money. Your father was a media mogul. You could've coasted. Married rich. Hosted charity balls."
She narrowed her eyes. "That's what you think of me?"
He tilted his head. "I think you chose the harder path. And I want to know why."
She hesitated.
"My mother," she said finally. "She died when I was sixteen. Everyone said it was an accident. A fall down the stairs. But I knew better. She had bruises. Secrets. My father made sure those secrets were buried with her."
Julian's gaze sharpened, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
"I tried to dig," Savannah continued. "Tried to scream the truth. But money silences even the loudest cries."
"And now you're the one uncovering other people's secrets."
She nodded. "It's the only power I have left."
Julian stepped closer, crouched in front of her. "You're wrong."
"About what?"
"You have more power than you realize. And that scares the hell out of the people who want you quiet."
Her breath hitched. She hated how his presence could do that—how he always seemed to see too much.
"You didn't just inherit your father's name," he added. "You inherited enemies. Ones who don't care how many fires they have to set to silence you."
Savannah searched his face, trying to find the lie. The angle. But there was none. Just a man who looked too tired for his age and carried the weight of more ghosts than he let on.
"You think someone from my father's circle did this?" she asked.
"I think you're getting too close to something dangerous."
"And you're trying to protect me?"
Julian didn't blink. "Yes."
"And when this is over? What then?"
"I don't plan that far ahead anymore."
She studied him. "Because it hurts too much to hope?"
"Because every time I do, I lose something."
There it was—the truth beneath the steel. And it hit her harder than she expected.
She stood suddenly. "I need to clear my head."
He didn't stop her this time. Just watched as she slipped toward the hallway, away from the heat he didn't dare unleash.
Savannah wandered into the guest room, closing the door softly behind her. She leaned against it for a moment, breathing in deep.
She didn't trust him. She couldn't afford to.
But she also couldn't deny the part of her that no longer felt like the same woman who'd walked into that building a week ago. Something had shifted.
Maybe it was the fire.
Maybe it was Julian.
Either way, she was burning—and she wasn't sure she wanted to be saved.