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The door swung open.
The apartment was ordinary. Spare. There were drops of blood on the floor, a trail of them, leading to the bathroom.
I walked in and found the bathtub. The water had been turned entirely red. On the floor beside it lay a small blade.
My mind went blank.
Julian wasn't hurt.
Julian had been trying to kill himself.
The memory of his voice on the phone rushed back — that slow, heavy breathing, like the exhale of someone already half gone. I understood now: he had been lying in that bathtub, eyes closed, when his phone rang.
He'd glanced at the screen. Almost forgotten how to breathe.
The caller ID: Ivy Harrington.
Ivy Harrington, who had been dead for ten years. The only number saved in that phone.
The blade had slipped from his fingers. He pressed answer.
"Julian."
He knew that voice.
I closed my eyes.
I couldn't make sense of it. Twenty-eight-year-old Julian Harrington — sole heir to the Harrington empire, golden and untouchable — why would he want to die?
"Ivy, you'll sleep in my room tonight."
His voice came from behind me, accompanied by the sound of the second bedroom door locking.
I turned around and looked at him.
"You were just trying to kill yourself. Why?"
I kept my voice steady, but it trembled anyway.
Julian had already cleaned and wrapped the wound. White gauze bandaged his wrist.
His voice went soft. "Did I scare you?"
That's what you're asking?
I stared at him, still unable to believe what I was seeing.
"I keep forgetting you're still eighteen." A wry curve of his mouth. "It's okay, Ivy. The cut didn't reach anything critical — it just looks worse than it is. Let me clean up the bathroom. You go to bed."
He steered me toward the door.
"Julian — throw away the blade."
I was nearly begging.
He smiled — that rare, quiet smile — and brought a hand up to my hair, fingers curling gently through the strands before stilling.
"Okay."
The door closed.
This was the second time I'd been in Julian's bedroom.
The first time, I'd been following Elaine's orders — buy something sheer, slip in while he's in the shower, do what you have to do. I'd gone through with it. Julian came out of the bathroom in a towel, hair still dripping, and found me on his bed.
The look in his eyes had been pure, undisguised revulsion.
Later he'd had the staff throw out everything I'd touched, and scrub the floor where I'd stood.
I didn't dare use his bed now. I laid my school bag flat on the floor and sat on it, then pulled out the phone to search for news about Julian Harrington.
Harrington Group CEO's company absorbs Harrington Group assets — Harrington Group enters bankruptcy liquidation.
The first headline made me stop.
He hadn't inherited the Harrington Group. He'd destroyed it?
Tech mogul Julian Harrington still unmarried — insiders say he never forgot his first love.
I clicked on it. The photo showed Julian standing at a gravestone.
Mine.
I preferred to believe he was there to celebrate.
Julian Harrington's secret daughter enrolled at elite prep school — child's identity confirmed.
The photo showed the little girl's face clearly.
She looked nothing like Julian. Not even a little.
Fake news.
I was still scrolling when Julian walked in.
I jumped to my feet, words tumbling out: "I didn't touch anything. The floor's clean too, I swear."
Something shifted in his expression. He held out a set of his own pajamas.
"Just go to sleep, Ivy."