Part 2
“Elias,” the blond man said. “And before you ask, no, I’m not a bodyguard.”
“You stand outside strange apartments at sunrise. That feels very bodyguard-adjacent.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Fair.”
I tightened the oversized sweatshirt I’d slept in. It smelled faintly like cedar and laundry detergent that probably cost more than my childhood bedroom. “So what are you, exactly?”
Elias considered that.
“Damage control.”
That answer somehow raised more questions than it solved.
Behind him, the apartment was quiet in the expensive way wealthy places often were. No televisions through walls. No arguing neighbors. No pipes screaming at five in the morning.
Silence still unnerved me.
“Is Ronan here?” I asked.
Elias glanced toward the elevator. “No.”
Something in me loosened unexpectedly.
Not relief exactly.
Disappointment.
Which was ridiculous.
I barely knew the man.
I knew he had tattoos disappearing beneath the sleeves of black dress shirts. I knew his voice sounded like gravel dragged slowly across velvet. I knew he hugged like someone unfamiliar with tenderness but determined not to break what he held.
And I knew that when my father saw him standing there last night, Gregor Easton had looked afraid.
That alone made Ronan Morgan dangerous.
Elias handed me a paper bag. “Clothes.”
I peeked inside.
Jeans. Soft gray sweater. Underwear still folded in plastic packaging. Sneakers.
All my size.
“You guessed correctly?” I asked slowly.
“No,” Elias replied. “Ronan did.”
That shouldn’t have affected me.
It did anyway.
I looked away quickly. “That’s unsettling.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
The words slipped out too naturally.
My eyes narrowed. “How many traumatized women does this man usually collect?”
Elias coughed into his fist like he was hiding a laugh. “You’re the first.”
“Comforting.”
He leaned against the wall, studying me carefully now. “How long has your father been hurting you?”
The bluntness stole the air from my lungs.
People usually danced around abuse like saying it directly might stain them.
I stared at the floorboards. “Since always.”
Elias nodded once, unsurprised.
That somehow hurt more.
“He filed three missing person reports when you ran,” he said quietly.
Ice slid through my stomach.
“What?”
“He’s looking for you.”
I wrapped my arms tighter around myself instinctively.
“No one will tell him where you are,” Elias added immediately.
“You sound very confident.”
“I am.”
I should have asked why.
Instead I asked the question clawing at my brain since last night.
“Who exactly is Ronan Morgan?”
For the first time, Elias hesitated.
Which meant the answer mattered.
“He owns Morgan Holdings.”
Blank stare.
“Okay…”
“He owns about thirty percent of Chicago.”
I laughed automatically.
Elias did not laugh back.
The sound died in my throat.
“Oh.”
“Yes,” he said dryly. “Oh.”
A cold sensation crept over me.
Last night I had thrown myself into the arms of a billionaire.
Of course I had.
Because apparently my survival instincts came with comedic timing.
Before I could respond, the elevator doors slid open behind Elias.
Ronan stepped out.
Every coherent thought in my head quietly packed a suitcase and left.
He wore black slacks and a charcoal coat over a fitted sweater that made broad shoulders look unfairly broad. Dark tattoos curled above his collarbone beneath olive-toned skin. His hair was still slightly damp, like he’d showered recently, and his expression remained composed in that dangerous way that suggested composure had cost him something.
His eyes found mine instantly.
The air changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“Morning,” he said.
My throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Hi.”
Brilliant response, Iris.
Truly historic conversational work.
Elias looked between us with the expression of a man recognizing a problem before it fully formed.
“I’ll be downstairs,” he announced.
Then he disappeared into the elevator with suspicious speed.
The silence he left behind stretched.
Ronan approached slowly, gaze dropping briefly to my feet.
“You’re wearing the shoes.”
I looked down at the sneakers. “That’s generally how shoes work.”
A pause.
Then the corner of his mouth moved.
Tiny.
Barely there.
But definitely a smile.
The realization stunned me enough that I forgot to breathe for a second.
“You should eat,” he said.
“I’m not sure if I can.”
“Try anyway.”
There was no force in his tone.
No command.
Just certainty.
Which somehow made it harder to resist.
The kitchen looked untouched by actual human life. Marble counters. Steel appliances. Everything painfully clean.
Ronan poured coffee while I sat cautiously at the island eating toast that tasted far too expensive to emotionally process before noon.
He moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, but there was something restrained about him. Controlled.
Like every motion had been carefully taught not to take up too much space.
“You don’t talk much,” I observed.
“You talk enough for both of us.”
“That’s fair.”
He set a plate in front of me.
Eggs. Fruit. Actual food.
I stared at it suspiciously.
“You think I poisoned your breakfast?” he asked.
“I think rich people are unpredictable.”
“That’s wise.”
I took a bite.
Nearly moaned.
Real butter.
Oh my God.
Ronan watched me realize this with visible amusement.
“You’ve never had brioche before,” he said.
“That was not a question.”
“No.”
Heat crept into my cheeks.
I hated being readable.
“So,” I said quickly, “how does a billionaire end up standing alone on random streets at midnight?”
His expression cooled slightly.
“I was driving.”
“Insightful.”
A quieter pause followed.
Then he surprised me by answering.
“My mother died four years ago.”
The bluntness of it made me still.
Ronan looked out toward the windows overlooking the city.
“She used to call when she couldn’t sleep,” he said. “After she died, I started driving at night instead.”
Something inside my chest ached unexpectedly.
No one touched him for four years.
I understood that suddenly without being told.
Not because no one wanted to.
Because he didn’t let them.
“You loved her,” I said softly.
“She was the only person who never wanted anything from me.”
The loneliness in that sentence nearly undid me.
I looked down at my plate before he could see my face react.
Grief recognized grief.
That was the dangerous thing happening between us.
Not attraction.
Recognition.
Ronan’s phone buzzed against the counter.
His expression shifted after reading the screen.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Your father filed assault charges.”
I blinked. “Against who?”
“You.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
Then laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because if I didn’t laugh, I might break apart right there in his perfect kitchen.
“That’s actually impressive,” I whispered. “He nearly cracked my rib last month and somehow I’m the violent one.”
Ronan’s jaw tightened visibly.
“You should sit down,” I muttered. “You look like you’re considering homicide.”
“I’m considering lawyers.”
“That’s somehow scarier.”
Another message appeared on his phone.
This one changed something in his face immediately.
Not anger.
Focus.
He typed a short response.
Then looked at me.
“You can’t stay here tonight.”
Every muscle in my body locked.
Oh.
Of course.
Reality arriving again.
Stupid, stupid girl.
I forced a shrug. “Right. Obviously. I can go—”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I stopped.
“There’s a problem,” he said carefully. “Someone leaked your location.”
Cold flooded me instantly.
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Fear clawed sharply up my spine.
Gregor.
He found me.
Already.
I pushed away from the counter too quickly. “I need to leave.”
Ronan stood immediately. “No.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly.”
His voice stayed calm.
That somehow made my panic worse.
“If he comes here—”
“He won’t touch you.”
“You can’t promise that!”
Something dark flickered across his face then.
Terrifyingly dark.
“Yes,” Ronan said quietly. “I can.”
The room fell silent.
I realized suddenly this man was not merely wealthy.
Power clung to him differently.
Not loud.
Not flashy.
Controlled.
The kind capable of ruining lives without raising its voice.
My pulse stuttered.
“Who are you really?” I whispered.
His eyes held mine.
“A man trying very hard not to become his father.”
The answer unsettled me more than if he’d refused.
Before I could ask another question, the apartment door opened.
A woman stepped inside without knocking.
Elegant. Dark-haired. Maybe early thirties. She wore cream trousers and a long camel coat that probably cost more than my yearly rent.
Her sharp gaze landed on me immediately.
Then on Ronan.
Interesting.
“Ah,” she said softly. “So the rumors are true.”
Ronan’s entire posture hardened.
“Lena.”
The woman smiled faintly. “You disappeared from a board meeting for this?”
I looked between them cautiously.
Not lovers.
Not exactly.
But history lived in the tension between them.
Lena approached me slowly.
“I’m Lena Vale,” she said. “Company attorney. Occasional babysitter for emotionally constipated billionaires.”
Ronan sighed.
I blinked. “That’s apparently a common condition.”
To my surprise, Lena laughed.
Then her gaze sharpened as she examined the fading bruise along my cheekbone.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
Something dangerous entered her expression.
Not pity.
Anger.
She turned toward Ronan. “How bad?”
“Long-term abuse,” he replied.
He said it clinically.
But his jaw flexed once.
Lena noticed too.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
“She can’t stay at the apartment,” Ronan continued. “Someone leaked the address.”
Lena’s eyes narrowed immediately. “From your internal staff?”
“I’m finding out.”
Fear churned harder in my stomach now.
People were talking about me.
Looking for me.
I suddenly imagined Gregor dragging me down apartment stairs by my wrist again while neighbors pretended not to hear.
My breathing shortened.
Ronan noticed instantly.
“Iris.”
I looked at him.
“Breathe.”
Just that.
Low. Steady. Certain.
Embarrassingly, it worked.
Lena watched the interaction carefully.
Then something understanding crossed her face.
“Oh no,” she murmured.
Ronan looked at her flatly. “Don’t start.”
“You hugged him, didn’t you?” she asked me suddenly.
I blinked. “What?”
Lena stared at me with growing disbelief. “You touched him.”
Now I looked between both of them.
“What is happening?”
Neither answered.
Which was answer enough.
Slow realization crept over me.
“No one touches you,” I said quietly to Ronan.
His silence confirmed it.
“Why?”
A strange stillness entered him.
Then he spoke without looking directly at me.
“My mother was the last person who did.”
The ache in those words hollowed out the room.
Four years.
Four years without human touch.
No wonder he looked startled when I grabbed his shirt last night.
No wonder his arm wrapped around me like instinct fighting memory.
Something painful moved through my chest.
“You looked cold,” I whispered before thinking.
Ronan finally looked at me then.
Really looked.
The kind of look that made everything else disappear for one dangerous second.
Lena cleared her throat loudly.
“Right,” she said. “Before this becomes emotionally catastrophic, we need to move.”
That snapped reality back into place.
Fear returned immediately.
“Where am I supposed to go?”
Ronan answered without hesitation.
“With me.”
Three hours later, we were driving north along Lake Shore Drive beneath a sky the color of steel.
I sat beside Ronan in the backseat while Elias drove.
No one spoke much.
The city slowly disappeared behind us.
Finally, massive iron gates opened ahead.
My stomach dropped.
The estate beyond them looked less like a home and more like the setting of a murder mystery involving inheritance disputes.
Stone walls. Endless windows. Lake Michigan glittering beyond dark trees.
“You live here?” I asked weakly.
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Have you considered haunting people professionally?”
That tiny almost-smile appeared again.
God help me, I wanted to earn another one.
Inside, the mansion felt strangely empty despite its size.
Beautiful.
Cold.
Like no one had laughed here in years.
A housekeeper named Marta showed me upstairs to a bedroom larger than my entire apartment back home.
“You’ll be safe here,” she said gently.
Safe.
The word nearly broke me.
That night, rain battered the windows while I stood barefoot beside the bedroom fireplace unable to sleep.
Too much silence again.
Too much softness.
My body didn’t know how to exist somewhere safe.
A quiet knock sounded at the door.
I opened it cautiously.
Ronan stood there in black sweatpants and a dark long-sleeve shirt, looking equally sleepless.
“I saw your light on,” he said.
“Oh.”
A pause.
Then he glanced toward the storm outside.
“Thunder bothering you?”
I almost lied.
Then didn’t.
“Yes.”
Ronan nodded once like he understood completely.
Maybe he did.
He stepped inside slowly.
Not too close.
Never too close unless invited.
The realization hit me suddenly.
This man treated proximity like something sacred.
“Can I ask you something?” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“Why did you stop?”
His brow furrowed slightly.
“Last night. After you hugged me.” My voice softened. “You let go like you were afraid.”
The storm rumbled beyond the windows.
Ronan looked at me for a very long moment.
Then finally answered.
“Because,” he said quietly, “the last time I wanted to keep holding someone… she died.”
The confession cracked something open between us.
I stepped closer before fear could stop me.
Ronan went completely still.
“You’re not going to lose everyone you care about,” I whispered.
Something raw flickered across his face.
Then—
A loud crash echoed downstairs.
Both of us froze.
Another sound followed.
Glass breaking.
Voices.
Male.
Ronan’s expression transformed instantly into something lethal.
Elias’s voice shouted from below.
“Ronan!”
Then came the words that turned my blood to ice.
“He’s inside the house.”
Gregor.
My father found me.
And downstairs, someone started screaming.
…If you want to know what happened next, please type “YES” and like for more.