He Bought His Mistress A Penthouse In The Building I Own Chapter 05

He Bought His Mistress A Penthouse In The Building I Own Chapter 05: The Stolen Watch

The front door slammed shut. Heavy footsteps echoed across the marble foyer.

“Sera? Are you home?” Julian called out.

I stood in the kitchen, stirring a pot of beef stew. The wooden spoon scraped the bottom of the cast-iron dutch oven.

“In here,” I answered.

He strode into the dining room. He dropped his leather briefcase onto a chair and walked straight to the liquor cabinet. He grabbed a crystal decanter and poured two fingers of scotch.

He downed it in one swallow.

“Rough day?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t believe the day I had,” Julian groaned. He poured another glass.

“Try me.”

“My bank accounts locked up. All of them.”

“Even the Vanguard black card?”

“Especially that one.” He pulled at his collar, loosening his silk tie. “I was humiliated.”

He stepped into the kitchen light. Mud caked the edges of his tailored trousers and ruined his leather oxfords.

“Your shoes are a mess,” I pointed out.

He glanced down, kicking his feet awkwardly against the floor mat. “Construction on Fifth Avenue. I stepped right into a puddle.”

“Fifth Avenue?”

“I was at Cartier.” He smiled, offering a practiced, charming curve of his lips. “I was trying to buy your anniversary gift early.”

“Cartier.”

“A diamond tennis bracelet. The terminal rejected the card in front of the entire store.”

He lied without a single stutter. His pulse, visible at his throat, didn’t even spike.

“That sounds awful,” I said.

“It was a nightmare. I spent an hour on the phone with customer service. They claimed someone reported the card stolen.”

“Did you call Elias?”

“He sent me straight to voicemail.” Julian carried his glass to the table and slumped into his seat. “The teller actually threatened to call the police.”

“Over a declined card?”

“Over a supposed stolen card. I demanded to speak to the branch manager. Do you know what she told me?”

“What?”

“She said the primary account holder initiated a hard freeze. She implied you locked me out.”

“That is ridiculous.”

“That is exactly what I told her. I said my fiancée would never do something so insulting.” He took a long sip of his scotch. “It must be a glitch in the Vanguard system. A massive routing error.”

“I will have IT run a diagnostic in the morning.”

“You need to fire your compliance team, Sera. This level of incompetence is unacceptable.”

“I will handle it.”

“Make sure you do.”

I turned back to the stove. I lowered the heat, letting the stew simmer.

“Did they clear the fraud alert?” I asked.

“No. The representative was incredibly rude. I told him who I was, and he hung up on me.”

“I am sure it is just a system error.”

“It better be. I plan to call the bank president tomorrow.”

I grabbed two thick potholders. I lifted the dutch oven off the burner. The heavy iron pot radiated heat against my forearms.

“Dinner is ready,” I announced.

I walked into the dining room. Julian sat at the head of the long mahogany table. He reached up to loosen his tie further.

As his left arm raised, the French cuff of his dress shirt slid back.

His wrist was completely bare.

I stopped walking. The heavy iron pot hovered inches above the cork trivet.

“Where is your Patek?” I asked.

Julian froze. His hand dropped to the table entirely too fast. He pulled the sleeve down to his knuckles.

“My watch?”

“The one I won for you at Sotheby’s last month.”

Panic flashed across his features. It vanished just as quickly, replaced by a smooth mask of indifference.

“It is at the shop,” he said.

“The shop.”

“The clasp felt loose.” He tapped his bare wrist. “I dropped it off during my lunch break. I didn’t want to risk losing a two-hundred-thousand-dollar timepiece.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the clasp was loose?” I asked.

“It just started acting up yesterday.”

“I could have had my personal jeweler look at it. He makes house calls.”

“It wasn’t a big deal, Sera. I just swung by the shop on Madison.”

“Which one? The Swiss boutique?”

“Yes. The Swiss one.” He took a quick sip of his water. “Stop worrying. It is fully insured.”

“I am not worried about the insurance. I am worried about the craftsmanship.”

“They are professionals.”

“Are they?”

“Yes.” His voice gained a sharp edge. “Why are we arguing about a watch?”

“We are not arguing.”

My fingers shifted on the potholder. The fabric slipped.

The heavy iron pot slammed down onto the trivet.

A wave of boiling broth sloshed over the rim. Searing liquid struck the back of my left hand.

The heat chewed instantly into my flesh. A bright, angry red patch bloomed across my knuckles. The pain flared, sharp and intense, radiating up my arm.

I did not flinch. I did not blink.

“Sera!” Julian jumped up from his chair. “You just dumped boiling water on yourself!

He grabbed a linen napkin and reached for my hand.

I pulled away sharply.

“Do not touch me.”

Julian stopped. The napkin hovered in mid-air. “I am just trying to help.”

“I said I am fine.”

“You are not fine. Your skin is blistering.”

“It is just soup.” I picked up a towel and wiped the spilled broth off the polished wood.

He stared at me, genuine unease creeping into his expression. He looked from my burned hand to my perfectly calm face.

“You didn’t even make a sound,” he whispered.

“I have a high tolerance for pain.”

“Let me get some ice.”

“Sit down, Julian.”

“Sera, you need a doctor.”

“I need you to sit down and eat your dinner.”

He hesitated. He slowly lowered himself back into his chair, his eyes never leaving my face.

“You are acting strange,” he muttered.

“I am just tired.”

“Are you sure you are okay?”

“I have never been better.”

I picked up the ladle and filled his bowl. I set it in front of him.

“Did they give you an estimate on the repair time?” I asked, keeping my voice perfectly level.

“Friday,” Julian answered quickly. “I will pick it up on Friday.”

He picked up his spoon and stirred his bowl.

“Did you get the catering menu for the wedding?” he asked, shifting the subject.

“It is on my desk.”

“We need to finalize the champagne order by Friday.”

“I will take care of it.”

“Make sure you upgrade to the Dom Pérignon. My parents are expecting top tier.”

“Of course.”

I stared at the man sitting across from me. He wore the suits I bought. He drove the cars I leased. He lived in the house I paid for.

And he handed my investments over to another woman.

My phone buzzed inside my blazer pocket.

I pulled it out. The screen lit up with a notification from the Vanguard private server. Elias had set up a dummy account to monitor Chloe Reyes’s online presence.

He tagged me in a new update.

“Work email?” Julian asked before taking a bite of beef.

“Just a notification.”

I unlocked the screen and opened the app.

Chloe had just posted a new photo, timestamped ten seconds ago.

The caption read: He always ruins my surprises, but he has the best taste.

The image showed Chloe sitting in the back of an Uber. Her manicured hand rested on her thigh.

Wrapped tightly around her wrist, dangling loosely because it was sized for a man, was a platinum Patek Philippe.

The exact serial number engraving on the clasp was clearly visible.