Page 3 of Julian

Svetlana studies me, then lets a faintly mischievous smile curve her mouth. “It would be unfortunate,” she says, voice lowering just enough to shift the temperature of the room, “if we allowed such a nice evening to end too early.”

“Too early?” I repeat.

She traces the stem of her wineglass with a slow finger. “I find that dessert is often only the beginning.”

There’s nothing crude in her delivery but rather suggestion, confidence, invitation.

I hold her gaze, allowing a small, controlled smile. “You’re suggesting a final course.”

“I’m suggesting we not waste momentum.”

Before I can respond, Percy enters with the seamless discretion of a man who has mastered the art of impeccable timing. He approaches the table as though the air has not shifted at all.

“May I clear the plates?” he asks.

“Of course,” I say.

He lifts Svetlana’s first, then mine. As he does, his eyes flick briefly to the melted edge of the ice cream, now fully surrendered into the crust.

“Acceptable consistency, sir?” he inquires.

“Perfect,” I reply. “The entire dinner was exceptional,” I add. “Thank you, Percy.”

There’s a subtle exchange in the look that passes between us. Percy has been in my life longer than most board members, longer than many friendships that once seemed immovable. He’s seen me at my most ambitious and at my most fractured. He understands the difference between the public version of me—the owner in the suite, the negotiator at the table, the man quoted in financial columns—and the quieter version who walks these halls when the city’s gone dark.

“Coffee, sir?” he asks. “Perhaps a brandy?” I look to Svetlana, giving deference to what she might want. Her eyes hold mine with open intent. No coyness, no pretense. She wants to move this elsewhere.

“I think we’re ready to retire upstairs,” I say quietly, my gaze pinned on Svetlana.

“The fire has been lit in the primary suite, sir,” Percy says with composure.

“Thank you, Percy.”

“I’ll ensure the lower floors are secured.” There is no raised brow or smirk. There isn’t even a suggestion of judgment. With Percy, it’s simple discretion and loyalty.

Svetlana slips her hand lightly into mine, and together we leave the dining hall.

We walk down the long corridor, the parquet floors catching the low amber light from the sconces lining the walls. The house at night appears even more theatrical, its bones quietly luminous beneath carefully placed illumination.

We pass into the expansive drawing room, and even after years of living here, I remain faintly aware of its scale.

The ceilings rise nearly fourteen feet, crowned with intricate medallions from which twin crystal chandeliers hang like suspended constellations. The walls are paneled in dark, high-gloss walnut, broken only by towering arched windows framed in heavy silk drapery the color of aged champagne. A grand piano anchors one side of the room.

The room is designed for conversation. It’s meant for performance and spectacle.

But tonight, it stands quiet and expectant.

Svetlana glances around, a small appreciative smile touching her mouth. “I will never quite get used to this,” she murmurs.

“Lived here my entire life and I’m still not used to it.”

We cross the drawing room toward the concealed panel along the far wall. I press my thumb to the discreet brass plate, and the private elevator doors slide open without sound.

I press the button for the sixth floor.

The ascent is nearly imperceptible. Through the mirror, I catch our reflection—her hand resting lightly against my chest now, my posture composed as ever.

Six floors above the city.