Chapter 3

Arthur's POV

I knew she was back the moment my phone buzzed during a merger call I couldn't have cared less about. The Sterling Platinum card—there were only three in existence, and I'd given her one of them.

Two years of silence, and this was how she announced her return. Not a call, not a message, just that cold digital alert telling me Chloe Vance had walked back into my city.

I'd ended the call without explanation and told Marcus to find out exactly what the hell she was doing at The Apex. His answer had come back within five minutes, and it had made something dark and possessive coil tight in my chest.

Julian Russo. That Silicon Valley peacock with his daddy's money and his absolute certainty that a prenup could buy him anything—including the girl I'd raised for ten years.

I'd watched the whole thing unfold on the security feeds Marcus had quietly accessed. Watched her walk into that private room with her shoulders back, and her chin lifted in that stubborn way I recognized too well.

Watched her record evidence with hands that barely trembled, watched her bluff her way out of a corner with the kind of reckless brilliance that made me want to shake her and kiss her in equal measure.

Smart enough to get the proof, stupid enough not to plan an exit. Some things never changed.

Now she stood in my private room looking like she wanted to be anywhere else on earth, and I couldn't stop cataloging every detail that had shifted in two years and every single thing that had stayed exactly the same.

She'd cut her hair. The realization hit harder than it should have—those waist-length waves I used to watch cascade over her shoulders were gone, replaced by loose curls that fell just past her collarbone.

Still that same warm chestnut color that caught amber in certain light, still thick enough that my fingers itched with the phantom memory of tangling in it. Paris had honed her into something leaner, sharper, like she'd shed every soft edge and replaced it with steel.

The clothes were different. She used to dress in soft colors—cream cashmere, blush silk, pale gold. Tonight she wore black. A sleek asymmetrical blazer with sharp shoulders over a silk camisole, high-waisted trousers, Louboutin heels that turned her walk into a weapon.

She'd learned to dress like armor instead of camouflage, and something about that shift made my chest tighten.

But her eyes were the same. Those amber eyes with their hazel flecks, the ones that used to look at me with trust and heat and something I'd never let myself name. Right now they blazed with defiance, guarded and wary, and I hated how much I'd missed that fire even as it had burned me alive two years ago.

"I raised you for ten years," I said, letting each word drop between us like stones. "And this is how you repay me? By disappearing for two years without a word, then showing up engaged to some Silicon Valley playboy who doesn't even have the decency to hide his affairs?"

Her jaw tightened, and I watched her thumb move unconsciously to her ring finger, that habit she'd developed after I'd given her the Sterling family signet on her eighteenth birthday. She'd left it behind when she fled to Paris, and I'd been wearing it on a chain under my shirt ever since, the metal warm against my sternum like a brand I couldn't remove.

"How long have you known?" Her voice was quieter now, some of the defensive armor cracking, and I felt a savage satisfaction at having finally broken through that careful control.

"Long enough." I turned back toward the window, needing space to think clearly, to not do something monumentally stupid like cross the room and kiss her until she admitted she'd missed me as much as I'd missed her. "Richard's been networking with the Russos for months. Did you really think I wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't make it my business to know why you'd agree to marry someone you clearly despise?"

I heard her sharp intake of breath, the rustle of silk as she shifted her weight, and I could picture her expression without looking—that particular combination of anger and vulnerability that used to undo me completely.

"You had Marcus watching me." It wasn't a question, and there was something brittle in her voice that made me turn back to face her despite my better judgment.

"I've had Marcus watching you since the day you left," I said flatly, letting her see the truth of it in my eyes. "Did you really think I'd let you disappear into Paris with no protection? No way of knowing if you were safe, if you needed anything, if some entitled asshole was making your life difficult?"

"I didn't want your protection, Arthur. I wanted—" She stopped abruptly, pressing her lips together as if physically stopping herself from finishing that sentence, and I found myself moving toward her before I'd consciously decided to, closing the distance between us in three strides until I was close enough to see the gold flecks in her amber eyes, close enough to smell her perfume—something French and expensive that she definitely hadn't been wearing two years ago.

"What did you want, Chloe?" My voice came out rougher than I'd intended, and I saw her swallow hard, saw the way her pupils dilated slightly as she looked up at me. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you wanted to run as far away as possible and pretend we never happened."

"That's not—" She stopped again, and I watched her struggle with whatever she'd been about to say, watched her face cycle through a dozen emotions before settling on something that looked almost like pain. "You know why I left."

"Do I?" I reached up slowly, giving her time to step back if she wanted to, and brushed a strand of hair away from her face, my fingers barely grazing her cheek but still feeling the slight tremor that ran through her at the contact.

"Because all I remember is you telling me you couldn't do this anymore, that it was wrong, that we were wrong, and then you were gone before I could make you understand that I didn't give a damn about wrong when it came to you."

Her eyes were bright now, suspiciously bright, and I forced myself to step back before I did something we'd both regret. The air between us felt electric, charged with two years of unspoken words and unresolved tension, and I could see her fighting the same battle I was—the desperate need to close the distance warring with all the reasons we'd stayed apart in the first place.

Then something shifted in her expression, that careful mask slipping back into place, and when she spoke again, her voice had changed—softer, more careful, deliberately casual.

"Arthur, I really do have my own things to handle now." She took a small step back, creating distance. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm not your responsibility anymore."

The word she didn't say hung in the air between us, loud as a scream in the silence.

Brother. The role I'd chosen, the cage I'd built for both of us, the lie we told the world so we could pretend what we felt was acceptable.

I felt the impact of that unspoken word like a physical blow, reminding me exactly what we were to everyone outside this room.

Legal siblings.

Guardian and ward.