The Protective Turn

The mahogany desk in Julian’s private study felt less like furniture and more like a barricade. Elara stood on the opposite side, the weight of the retrieved dossier in her hands acting as a cold, physical anchor. She didn’t need to read the pages again; the damning ink was etched into her mind.

"The board meeting is in three hours, Julian," she said, her voice steady despite the jagged rhythm of her pulse. "They believe I embezzled those funds because you fed them the false trail. Why?"

Julian didn't look up from his monitor. He was adjusting a series of stock positions, his movements surgical. He looked every inch the cold, untouchable heir the press obsessed over, but there was a tightness in his jaw that hadn't been there before the gala.

"You were a liability, Elara," he replied, his tone devoid

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