His dark hair was styled perfectly, and his gray eyes were cold, devoid of the warmth I had lived with for three years.

“Alexander,” I whispered, though my heart knew the lie.

“Of course it’s me, darling,” he said, stepping into the narrow locker. “Who else would it be?”

He reached out a gloved hand to touch my cheek, but I flinched away, backing into the steel wall.

“Don’t touch me, Julian,” I said.

His hand paused in mid-air, his fingers curling slowly into a fist before he dropped his arm to his side.

A thin, humorless smile touched the corners of his mouth.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said softly. “This belongs to the family.”

“He was your brother,” I said, my voice cracking as I pointed to the blood-stained suit in the bag. “What did you do to him?”

“We did what was necessary to secure the future of Whitmore Global,” Julian said, his voice flat and conversational. “My father-in-law requires stability. Alexander was… unstable. He wanted to throw everything away for an art restorer.”

He stepped closer, blocking the exit completely.