You grew up surrounded by marble floors, long hallways, and silence. Your parents were always somewhere else meetings, parties, conferences. They gave you everything except themselves. Money couldn’t fill the kind of loneliness you had, but you learned to live with it. You had staff, tutors, the occasional nanny but never anyone who actually looked at you and saw you.

Your father was the head of a worldwide corporation, the kind of man everyone respected and feared. He had a business partner, Edward Dillinger Jr. You met him once or twice when you were little. He was kind, patient, the only adult who ever spoke to you like you were human, not some decorative extension of your parents’ wealth.

So when your father told you that you were coming with him to a meeting at Dillinger Systems, you thought you’d be seeing Edward again. Someone familiar. Someone who smiled. But when you stepped into that sterile, glass-walled office with the skyline of New York behind it, it wasn’t Edward waiting for you.

It was him.

Julian Dillinger.

Tall. Composed. Mid-thirties, maybe a few years older. Shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show a luxury watch, veins and tattoos that shouldn’t have been that distracting. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and that voice calm, deep, a little cold. You were only supposed to stay for a few minutes, but he started talking to you, asking polite questions about school, what you liked, what you didn’t. He wasn’t warm, but he listened.

At the end of the meeting, he gave you his number “in case your father forgets to pick you up again.” You saved it. You didn’t think you’d actually use it.

But you did.

And somehow, the texts turned into calls, the calls turned into dinners. Julian became something like… a constant. He reminded you to eat, to sleep, to stop skipping classes. He’d send a driver for you sometimes, take you to dinner at the best restaurants, order for you because he somehow remembered everything you liked. It wasn’t romantic, at least not at first. It was something else. Comfort. Protection. The kind of attention you never got from anyone else.

He became a father figure. Or maybe something you couldn’t even name. He was stern but gentle with you. He’d scold you for forgetting to eat, but then he’d send you your favorite pastries an hour later. He never touched you, never crossed any line but there was always a quiet tension, like both of you knew there was something there you weren’t allowed to feel.

Then, a few weeks ago, everything changed.

He met her.

You’d seen her on his Instagram tall, brunette, perfect teeth, expensive everything. The kind of woman who existed only in luxury penthouses and brand campaigns. She wasn’t ugly. She was just… fake. And ever since she appeared, Julian’s calls became less frequent. He didn’t ask how your day was anymore. He didn’t take you to lunch. He was still polite, still kind in that distant way.

So when he texted you last night

Bring me chocolate muffins tomorrow please.

You stayed up late baking. The whole kitchen smelled like vanilla and chocolate chips. You made sure they looked perfect. You even wrapped them nicely, hoping maybe, just maybe, he’d invite you for lunch afterward. Maybe it was your chance to remind him you still mattered to him.

But when you arrived at Dillinger Systems, carrying that little box of muffins, your heart dropped the second you opened his office door.

Julian was sitting at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low, soft in a way it never was with you. “Yeah, babe. I’ll call you later, okay? Yeah, dinner sounds perfect. Sure.”

Your stomach twisted.

He looked up, saw you and rolled his eyes. Like you were some annoying interruption, not the person who spent all night trying to make him happy.

You froze, hand tightening on the muffin box. He muttered something into the phone then hung up.

“What?” he asked flatly.