He Bought His Mistress A Penthouse In The Building I Own Chapter 18

He Bought His Mistress A Penthouse In The Building I Own Chapter 18: The Removal

I left the boardroom without looking back.

Trent followed me out into the wide hallway. We walked in absolute silence until we reached the second-floor gallery. The glass balcony wrapped entirely around the upper level, offering a perfect view of Vanguard’s massive marble lobby below.

Down on the ground floor, chaos echoed off the stone walls.

Four burly security guards hauled Julian toward the exit. They did not bother being gentle. Two men gripped him under his armpits. The other two grabbed him by the belt of his slacks. They practically carried him over the polished floorboards.

“Put me down!” Julian shrieked. “You are wrinkling my suit!”

“Stop kicking,” the lead guard ordered.

“I know the CEO!” Julian thrashed his legs wildly. His expensive leather shoes scraped against the marble, leaving dark rubber streaks behind. “I designed the lighting in this very lobby! You work for me!”

“We work for Vanguard,” the guard fired back. He gave Julian’s belt a vicious yank.

Julian stumbled forward, his knees knocking against the stone. He scrambled to find his footing, but the guards refused to slow their pace. They dragged him violently toward the front entrance.

“Wait!” Julian yelled. He twisted his neck, scanning the empty lobby. “Where is Trent? I need to talk to Trent!”

“Mr. Rowe is busy,” a second guard muttered.

Julian threw his head back. His eyes darted frantically up toward the ceiling.

He spotted me standing by the gallery ledge.

“Sera!” he screamed. His voice cracked, sounding entirely raw. “Sera, tell them to stop! They are hurting my shoulders!”

I stepped closer to the edge. I rested my palms flat against the cold stainless steel railing. I stared down at him. I did not say a word.

“You won!” Julian shouted up at the balcony. “Okay? You proved your point! You are the boss! Now call off your attack dogs!”

“They are doing their jobs,” I replied, my voice projecting easily through the cavernous room.

“I am your fiancé!”

“You are a trespasser.”

The guards shoved him closer to the front glass doors. Julian dug his heels into the floor, desperately trying to anchor himself. The friction ripped the sole right off his left shoe.

“I will go to the press!” he threatened. He pointed a shaking finger up at me. “I will call every major news outlet in the city! I will tell them the majority shareholder of Vanguard is a vindictive, manipulative liar!”

“Go ahead,” I challenged him. “Tell them.”

“I will ruin your stock price!”

“Vanguard is a private holding company,” I reminded him. “We don’t trade publicly. The press doesn’t care about us.”

Julian’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. “They will care when I show them the photos! I have pictures of us! I will sell our private life to the tabloids!”

“Who is going to buy them?” I asked.

“Everyone!”

“You are a bankrupt architect facing a federal forgery charge,” I stated plainly. “You are not a celebrity, Julian. You are a criminal.”

That word struck him like a physical blow. The fight drained out of his shoulders. He stopped kicking.

“I was sick,” he whimpered. His tone shifted rapidly from rage back to pathetic bargaining. “Chloe brainwashed me, Sera. She manipulated my stress.”

“She brainwashed you into forging my signature on a three-million-dollar loan?”

“She said you were holding me back! She made me feel inadequate!”

“I was paying your credit card bills,” I pointed out. “I funded your entire company.”

“And I will pay you back!” he cried out. He shoved one of the guards, trying to turn around and face me fully. “Every single cent! Just give me a week to liquidate my assets!”

“You have no assets.”

“I have the cars!”

“The bank owns the cars.”

“I have my client list!”

“Your clients blocked your number yesterday.”

Julian gasped for air. His chest heaved violently under his torn dress shirt. “Why are you doing this to me? I apologized! I said I was sorry!”

“You apologized because you got caught.”

“I loved you!”

“You loved my bank account.”

The security team reached the final stretch of the lobby. Instead of forcing him through the revolving glass doors, the lead guard kicked open the heavy emergency side exit.

A brutal storm raged outside.

The heavy glass doors swung wide open. A freezing gust of wind roared into the lobby and slammed directly into my face.

I wrapped both hands around the stainless steel railing. My grip tightened automatically. The cold of the metal bled straight into my bones until my fingers lost all feeling.

“Sera, please!” Julian begged. The rain blew sideways through the open doorway, soaking his hair instantly. “It is freezing out there! I don’t have my coat! Chloe took my keys!”

“Find a shelter,” I suggested.

“I have no money!”

“Walk.”

“You cannot throw me onto the street!” he screamed. Panic completely consumed his features. “I am Julian Voss! I belong in a penthouse! You owe me a penthouse!”

I stared down at his wet, pathetic face. The cold wind whipped my hair across my cheeks.

“Throw him out,” I ordered.

“No! No, wait!” Julian reached his hand out toward the balcony. “Sera! I will sign whatever you want! I will give you whatever you want!”

“I already took everything I want.”

The guards swung him back on the count of three.

They launched him forward.

Julian flew through the open doorway. He hit the wet pavement outside with a sickening thud. He skidded across the concrete and landed flat on his stomach in a massive puddle of mud.

The dirty water splashed up, completely coating his pale skin. The thick, brown sludge ruined the remains of his designer navy suit.

“My clothes!” Julian wailed. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Mud dripped from his chin. “Look what you did to me!”

The lead guard stepped back inside and pulled the heavy glass door shut. The lock clicked loudly, sealing Julian out in the storm.

I stayed frozen at the railing. My joints ached from the pressure. Watching him crawl in the dirt did not bring a smile to my face. It just left a hollow, ringing silence in my ears.

Down on the pavement, Julian frantically patted his pockets.

A rectangular object slipped from his torn jacket.

His cell phone dropped straight into the murky puddle beside his hand.

Julian scrambled to grab it, but he was entirely too slow. The screen lit up underwater, cutting brightly through the gloomy rain.

From my angle on the second-floor balcony, the massive, bold font of his driving-mode caller ID glared through the storm.

“Bankruptcy Court.”