The wait was a slow burn.

Samuel had promised to come, but the silence in the room was a physical weight. Julian sat in the shadows, his pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

The heavy thud of the door echoed as it slammed open. Julian's head snapped up. Samuel? Two bouncers in sharp suits strode in instead.

The bouncer who had brought Julian inside sneered, a cold, jagged sound. "I knew it. There is no 'Marcus.' Just another brat playing dress-up." He loomed over Julian, his shadow swallowing him. "Get up. The clients are expecting you."

Julian shot a desperate look at maneger. She merely spread her palms, a hollow shrug of forced regret. "Kid, we have a dark room for liars."

The second bouncer leaned in, his eyes roaming Julian's frame. "Quite a find under that mask." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a predatory croon.

"Stop crying. Most people would kill for this. The boss tonight is old, but he's generous. You'll thank me by sunrise."

Julian's fingers cramped around his phone. He needed to buy time. He looked up, the fear in his eyes hardening into a sharp, brittle disdain.

He let out a light, mocking laugh. "Is that so?" He tilted his chin, a mask of arrogance slipping into place. "Just how much is this 'boss' of yours worth?"

"Enough to keep you fed for a lifetime," the bouncer snapped. "Move. The show is starting."

Backstage was a fever dream of sequins and frantic energy. As Julian passed the vanity, the long-haired man he'd met earlier looked up. Julian offered a quick, silent nod before ducking into the dressing room.

They had taken his phone. Samuel was a ghost now, a gamble Julian couldn't afford to lose. But he wasn't staying to find out.

He remembered the layout. Out the bathroom, turn left—that was the door to the back exit. The man stood guard at the door, barking for the makeup artist.

"Hey!" the long-haired man called out from across the floor. "My artist is finishing up, but there's a problem. I need you over here."

Julian caught his eye. It wasn't a coincidence. He offered a silent prayer of thanks and slipped through the back door while the man was distracted.

The heels were a liability. Julian tore them off, carrying them as he ran barefoot down the freezing corridor. He hit the fork in the hall and veered left.

The air turned sharp. The floor was a sheet of ice under his feet, proof that the exit was near. At the end of the hall, a small door stood between him and the night.

He threw his weight against it. The door swung open, and the world dissolved into cold wind and rain. Julian shivered, his breath hitching, but his heart soared. He was out.

Before he could take a second step, a pair of strong arms caught him. Julian thrashed, a wild, animal panic rising, until a familiar voice cut through the rain.

"Hush. It's me."

Julian froze. He looked up into the quiet, dark eyes of Samuel. "Samuel?" He breathed the name like a secret.

Samuel stripped off his heavy overcoat and draped it over Julian's thin frame. He shielded him from the crowd as he carried him toward the SUV.

Inside the car, the heat was a blast of mercy. Wool carpet lined the floor. Julian curled his toes, suddenly embarrassed by the dirt he was tracking onto the pristine interior.

Samuel handed him a thick blanket. "Are you okay?"

Julian wrapped the wool tight around himself. He tried to speak—to apologize, to thank him—but his voice was a tremor. His whole body began to shake.

The danger was gone, and the terror had finally arrived. He clutched the blanket until his knuckles were white. He didn't even know how he'd made it out.

Samuel appeared with a cup of hot water. "Drink. The explanation can wait."

Julian sipped the water, the heat slowly seeping back into his skin. Minutes passed. The shivering slowed. "I'm better. Thank you, sir."

Julian sat with his feet tucked, toes peeking through the torn black silk of his stockings. Red marks from the cold stained his skin.

The car grew warmer. Julian shifted, and the blanket slipped from his shoulder, revealing the outfit beneath.

The skirt was impossibly short, ending at the top of his thighs. Garter belts held up the black stockings, creating a tight pinch of soft flesh.

It made him look young. It made him look cheap. It made him look like something to be used.

Samuel had never concerned himself with the private lives of his staff at Apex Capital, but an irrational, white-hot fury flared in his chest.

"Cover yourself," Samuel rasped, his voice a blade of ice.

Julian looked down, realizing the lace was fully exposed to Samuel's gaze. "I-I'm sorry." He fumbled with the blanket, hiding the silk.

Samuel's eyes were cold. "Explain. Why were you here?"

Julian lowered his head. He didn't speak. The silence was an insult.

Samuel felt the urge to discipline him—a visceral, parental instinct he had no right to claim.

"Do you have any idea what kind of place this is? You thought you'd come here to play?"

Julian remained silent. The tension in the car was a tightening noose.

Samuel's voice rose, a sharp scold. "Tell me! Why would you do this to yourself? If I hadn't called, do you know what would have happened?"

"Did your parents never teach you to protect yourself?"

Samuel was more than angry. He was terrified.

Every second of that thirty-minute drive had been a serrated edge of panic for Samuel Frost.

When Julian Hale had hung up mid-call, the anxiety expanded like a pressurized balloon in Samuel's chest. He had promised to come, but Julian had chosen the most dangerous path anyway.

Seeing Julian stumble out of the club—disheveled, half-exposed, and shaking—Samuel felt a wave of relief so sharp it tasted like copper. Then came the fury.

It wasn't an outward explosion. It was a cold, internal strike. Samuel realized, with bruising clarity, that Julian didn't trust him. Even at the breaking point, the boy would rather run blindly into the night than lean on him.

Samuel was a man who lived by control. Now, the steering wheel felt alien in his hands. Something was slipping through his fingers—not just the situation, but something deeper.

He needed to reclaim his territory. He needed to be the one in charge again.

He lost his usual poise, pressing Julian for an explanation over and over. His voice was a whip, demanding answers.

Julian stayed silent. He looked like someone used to weathering storms by turning into stone.

"Thank you for coming to get me. I'm sorry for the trouble." Julian reached for the door handle, his voice flat. "I'll go now..."

He wasn't even wearing shoes.

Samuel's hand shot out, fingers clamping around Julian's wrist like a shackle.

"Where do you think you're going?"