Chapter 3: The Glass Cage

Julian’s P.O.V

The morning air was crisp, the kind of cold that wakes you up and reminds you that the world doesn't care about your sleep schedule.

I arrived at Maison Laurent Fashions an hour before my scheduled appointment. I wasn't usually the type to be early—punctuality was for people like Christian—but there was something about the file in my hand that had kept me awake half the night.

The waiting area outside Sia Laurent's office was every bit as cold and elegant as the woman herself. White marble floors. Black leather chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.

No magazines.

No flowers.

No personal touches.

It felt less like a reception area and more like a museum where emotions weren't allowed.

I leaned back in the chair, one ankle resting on my knee, a thick file open across my lap. The "severe" threat level wasn't just a corporate exaggeration. I pored over the three major incidents that had occurred over the last year.

Client: Sia Laurent.

I had barely made it halfway through before one thing became painfully clear.

This wasn't bad luck. Or... was it?

I flipped to the first incident.

1.        Runway Collapse.

"Hmm..."

I tapped my pen against the page.

"Luxury fashion show. Over eight hundred guests. Celebrities. Investors. Media."

The report listed twenty-seven people standing on the runway at various points during the finale.

Only one spot mattered. Sia's.

I studied the engineer's report again. A heavy chandelier had fallen onto the stage just as Sia came out on to the runway.

Support cables had been deliberately weakened. Not cut all at once, so the ropes would snap…gradually.

Professional work.

"Okay..." I muttered. "Someone wanted gravity to do the dirty work."

No gun. No knife. No witnesses.

Just an unfortunate accident.

Except accidents didn't usually involve surgically weakened steel cables.

I turned the page.

2.       Penthouse Break-in.

No valuables missing. Jewelry and cash remained untouched. Designer handbags still hanging neatly in their closet.

I frowned. "So why even break in?"

I skimmed the inventory again.

Nothing.

Nothing except...

My eyes stopped on the crime scene photographs.

Every framed family picture had been turned face down.

Except one.

A photograph of Sia holding a little boy: Leo.

Across the glass, written in red.

I KNOW WHERE HE IS.

I let out a slow whistle. "That's not theft."

That was psychology. Whoever had walked into her home hadn't come to steal. They came to remind her they could.

A message.

Not to the police. Not to the press.

To Sia.

Which meant... "They know exactly what scares you."

I closed my eyes for a second.

That wasn't random, that was intimate.

Personal.

I flipped to the final report.

3.      Charity Gala Shooting.

I read every witness statement twice.

The fake waiter with the forged credentials. Suppressed handgun hidden beneath a champagne tray. Escape vehicle waiting a street away.

Professional.

Very professional.

I looked at the seating chart clipped to the report.

Politicians.

Business leaders.

Foreign investors.

Half the city's elite had been there. "So..."

I tapped the page. "If this was an assassination..."

Who was the target? The mayor? A senator? One of the CEOs?

The reports said the gunman only fired once before the crowd scattered. Most investigators assumed he panicked.

I didn't.

I picked up the enlarged photograph taken by a journalist seconds before the shot.

The waiter wasn't looking at the crowd.

He wasn't scanning the room.

His eyes... I narrowed mine. "...were locked on Sia."

I leaned back. "Damn."

Three incidents. Three completely different methods.

Sabotage. Psychological intimidation. Professional assassination.

Different crimes, different locations, different risks. Yet they all shared one thing.

Her.

I grabbed a notepad and drew three circles.

Runway.

Penthouse.

Charity Gala.

Then I connected them with a line. "What's the common denominator?"

Not money. Nothing had been stolen. Not publicity.

The first attack was staged as an accident. Not revenge. There were easier ways to get revenge.

I drummed my fingers against the armrest. "What do they gain by keeping her alive long enough to be terrified?"

Silence answered me.

Unless...Unless the fear was the point.

Or maybe...

I glanced at Sia's photograph clipped to the inside cover.

Elegant, controlled, her expression unreadable. Almost too perfect.

"What happened to you, Ice Queen?"

Because this file wasn't telling me everything. Someone wanted Sia Laurent dead. Or broken.

Maybe both.

But one thing bothered me more than anything else. The killer knew her schedule, her home and her routines.

The exact place she'd stand on a runway. The exact night she'd be alone. The exact route she'd take through a charity gala.

I slowly closed the file. "No..."

I murmured. "This isn't someone watching from outside."

I looked toward the closed office doors at the end of the hallway.

A cold feeling settled in my stomach. "They're already inside."

And whoever they were...

They were close enough to whisper in her ear without her ever realizing it.

As I waited, I started observing the environment. I’ve always had a knack for reading a room—it’s what makes me a good security consultant. You don't just look at the exits; you look at the energy.

Maison Laurent Fashions was a temple of high style, but the atmosphere was sterile. The walls were a muted, clinical grey, and the furniture was sharp-edged and devoid of warmth. There were no family photos on the desks, no stray coffee mugs, no signs of human clutter. It was a space designed to impress, but more importantly, it was designed to keep people at a distance.

It gave off the distinct vibe of someone who had spent years building a fortress around themselves. Every line was precise, every surface polished to a mirror finish. It wasn't just minimalism; it was a void.

I looked around and realized that the "Ice Queen" moniker wasn't just a tabloid nickname. It was a lifestyle. She hadn't just closed the door to the world; she had frozen the lock.

That’s when I felt a gaze on me and looked up. The secretary, a sharp-featured woman in a charcoal suit, had been watching me from behind her desk.

She didn't look at me with the usual swooning admiration I was used to from women in these circles. Instead, her eyes were curious, almost calculating, as if she were trying to figure out which specific brand of chaos I was bringing into her boss's sanctuary.

I gave her a slow, professional smile—the one that usually worked on everyone—but she didn't blink. She simply stood up and smoothed her skirt.

"Ms. Laurent will see you now," she said, her voice as cool as the office decor. "Please, follow me."

I stood up, tucking the file under my arm, and followed her down a long, silent corridor. The silence was heavy, the kind that makes you want to whisper even when there's no one around to overhear.

When she opened the double doors to the main office, I stepped inside, expecting the typical chaos of a high-end fashion designer. I had envisioned fabric scraps scattered like confetti, mannequins draped in neon silks, and a rainbow of colors vomiting across every available surface.

Instead, I stepped into a sanctuary of silence.

The office was an extension of the lobby but on a more intimate scale. It was breathtakingly minimalistic. A massive desk of white marble sat in the center, completely clear of everything except a slim laptop and a single black pen. The walls were a soft, matte white, and the lighting was recessed and dim, creating an atmosphere of focused isolation.

It was a room that didn't want to be lived in; it wanted to be admired from a distance.

My eyes wandered, scanning the perimeter for security vulnerabilities, but they stopped abruptly at the far corner of the room. There, standing like a ghost in the middle of the modernism, was a large, floor-to-ceiling glass case.

Inside the case was a wedding dress.

It was an elaborate piece, crafted from heavy, shimmering silk and intricate lace that looked like it belonged in a museum. It was old—the style was from nearly two decades ago—but it was timeless in its elegance.

The dress was pristine, preserved in a vacuum of glass and light, yet it felt strangely oppressive. It didn't look like a garment designed for a celebration; it looked like a specimen.

I found myself walking toward it, drawn by the contrast. In a room where everything was stripped down to the essentials, this dress was an explosion of detail and tradition. I wondered if it was one of her first designs—a prototype of her genius, a relic of where her career had started before she transitioned into the sharp, cold lines of her current work.

I leaned in, noticing the way the lace clung to the bodice, the sheer weight of the fabric. It was beautiful, but it felt heavy, almost suffocating, even through the glass.

"It wasn't a design."

The voice was sudden, cutting through the silence like a blade. I jumped slightly and turned around.

Sia Laurent was standing by the door. She was smaller than I had imagined, but she filled the room with an intensity that was almost physical.

She was dressed in a sharp dark suit, her hair pulled back into a severe, flawless ponytail. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her lips were a muted shade of red that looked more like a warning than a cosmetic choice.

But it was her eyes that caught me. They were the same eyes from the photo—cold, distant, and shimmering with a deep-seated exhaustion. She wasn't looking at me; she was looking at the dress.

"It was my dress," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.

The words hit me with an unexpected weight. I looked back at the gown, then back at her. The dress was stunning, but it didn't hold the joys of a celebration that was supposed to be the happiest day of a girl’s life.

I remembered the file, the "severe" threat level, and the sterile nature of the office, and I shifted my weight, the smirk I usually wore feeling suddenly out of place, almost offensive.

For the first time in my life, I found myself at a loss for a witty comeback. I was looking at the Ice Queen, and for a split second, I found myself at a loss for words.

"I'm Julian Cross," I said, my voice dropping an octave, losing the playful edge. "I'm here to make sure nothing else ever gets close to hurt you."

Sia finally shifted her gaze to me.

She didn't smile. She didn't even acknowledge the attempt at a professional overture. She simply looked through me, as if I were just another piece of furniture in her meticulously curated void.

"Mr. Cross," she replied, her tone flat. "Let's see if you're as competent as your reputation is scandalous."