Where the Wrong Love Died

It was three in the morning by the time I emerged from my father's study. Not wanting to return to my room, I wandered into the family's private lounge and drank myself into a stupor. As the alcohol finally hit, my thoughts drifted to Julian.

The day he arrived for the selection was the anniversary of my mother's death. Flora had said it was bad luck and thrown all the portraits I had painted of my mother into the fireplace. There were so many servants in that mansion, yet not a single one dared to help me.

Only Julian rolled up his sleeves and reached into the flames, pulling the paintings out one by one.

In that moment, my heart skipped a beat. But it wasn't until yesterday that I learned it had all been an act. He didn't rush into the fire because he pitied me.

No, he did it to get Flora's attention.

The day before had been Flora's birthday. My father insisted on throwing a grand celebration for her, so he ordered me not to attend. He was afraid my presence would ruin her mood.

Julian had also requested the day off, saying he had something important to handle.

That night, just like now, I was in the lounge, drowning my sorrows in alcohol. Stumbling back through the mansion, drunk, I accidentally walked into Julian's room. Under his bed, I found that locked compartment.

Inside, besides the shrine to Flora, there was a phone.

On the phone, the man who was always so composed and self-possessed in my presence was gasping over a mere photograph. At the peak of his climax, I heard him groan, "Flora...I love you...I love you so, so much..."

The phone also held his text messages with a confidant.

"Mr. Stavros, how long do you plan on keeping up this bodyguard charade? Your parents have urged you to come home and inherit the family business countless times. If you keep dragging this out, your father is really going to lose it."

"Besides, you're the heir to the Chicago Greek mob; women throw themselves at you. What kind of woman can't you have? Why are you so fixated on the adopted daughter of a mafia family?"

"You even used a fake name to become her sister's bodyguard, just to get closer. What are you even after?"

Julian took off his non-prescription glasses, his eyes filled with a strange, tender lust. "I can't help it. Flora is so fragile. I don't want to frighten her."

"And what about Anya Donovan? Mr. Stavros, do you feel anything for her at all?"

Julian frowned, a flash of disgust on his face. "Yes. She makes me sick."

After reading the messages, I collapsed onto the bathroom floor, clutching my stomach. I dry-heaved until the world spun. A physical ache bloomed in my chest, as if my heart was tearing itself apart. I forced myself to my feet and opened the eighth bottle of the night.

A sudden footstep startled me from my thoughts.

I turned my head and saw Julian standing there. He was dressed in a crisp black suit. There wasn't a single wrinkle on him, even the top button of his white shirt was neatly fastened.

"Miss, it's time to go back to your room."

I stood up drunkenly, swaying on my feet. Sure enough, I missed a step and fell straight toward his arms. Julian immediately stepped back, his expression tight. He recoiled as if I were poison.

"Ouch..." I landed hard on the floor, scraping my knees.

He was unmoved by my pain. He helped me up with his pristine white silk gloves, then unceremoniously dumped me on the sofa and hurried toward the bathroom.

I knew exactly what he was going to do. He was going to wash his hands again.

In the five years he had followed me, he had used enough antiseptic soap to fill a room. He touched my hand? Wash his hands. He entered my room? Wash his hands.

It was worse when he serviced me in bed with those gloved hands, because he would practically flee afterward to scrub his skin raw.

If I hadn't seen him getting off to Flora's photo, I might have actually believed he was a pathological germaphobe.

A bitter smile twisted my lips, the small movement sending a fresh spike of pain through my scraped knees.

…

Half an hour later, Julian finally emerged from the bathroom. His gloves were gone, and the strong scent of antiseptic soap wafted from his hands.