Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Meet Your Son

"No," Elara said, her eyes fixed on the bumper of the Porsche ahead of them.

"Julian was amazing on the black slopes," Serena continued, turning slightly to look at him in the back. "Remember that night at the chalet? The fondue?"

Julian didn't answer. He was reading a file on his tablet, the blue light illuminating the sharp angles of his jaw. The silence in the car was thick, suffocating. Every time he shifted his weight, the leather of his shoes creaked against the floor mats.

Elara felt a cramp in her stomach. She needed this to be over. She needed to be away from them.

The Porsche in front of them slammed on its brakes.

Elara reacted a split second too late. Her boot stomped on the pedal, but the old brake pads were worn. The tires skidded on the damp asphalt.

Crunch.

It wasn't a hard impact, but it was loud. The Toyota's front bumper kissed the rear of the pristine 911.

Serena gasped, her hand flying to the dashboard. "Elara!"

In the backseat, Julian's hand shot out. He grabbed the back of Elara's headrest, bracing himself. His other hand instinctively flew forward, hovering inches from Elara's neck as if to stop whiplash, before he curled his fingers into a fist and pulled back.

The car stopped.

Silence.

"Is everyone okay?" Julian's voice was low, tight with suppressed tension.

"I... I think so," Elara whispered. She was shaking.

The driver's door of the Porsche flew open. A man in a flashy suit stormed out, his face red. He marched toward them, waving his arms.

"Are you blind?" the man screamed, slapping his hand against Elara's window. "This is a limited edition! Do you have any idea how much this paint costs?"

Elara fumbled with the window controls. The glass rolled down with a grinding noise. Cold air rushed in.

"I'm so sorry," she stammered. "I hit the brakes, but-"

"Look at this piece of junk!" the man shouted, kicking the Toyota's tire. "You shouldn't even be on the road. You can't afford to look at my car, let alone hit it!"

Serena sighed loudly. "Great. Now we're going to be late for dinner at Le Bernardin."

The back door opened.

Julian stepped out. He buttoned his jacket with a single, fluid motion. He stood a full head taller than the Porsche driver. The wind whipped his dark hair, but he looked unbothered. Dangerous.

The shouting man stopped mid-sentence. He looked up at Julian, his eyes widening.

Julian walked past him to inspect the damage. He barely glanced at the scratch. He turned to the man, stepping between him and Elara's window. He was a wall. A shield.

"You're upsetting my wife," Julian said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that made the other man shrink. His posture was lethal, a silent promise of violence if the man raised his voice again.

"She... she hit me," the man stuttered.

Julian reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim metal card case. He extracted a black card with gold lettering. He held it out.

"Call this number. My legal team will handle the repairs and the depreciation value. Now get back in your car."

The man looked at the card. He saw the name Sterling. The color drained from his face. "Mr. Sterling. I... I didn't realize. It's fine. Just a scratch."

"Go," Julian said.

The man scrambled back to his Porsche.

Julian turned back to the Toyota. He looked at Elara through the open window. She was trembling, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

"Move over," he said.

"What?"

"Get in the passenger seat. Or the back. I don't care. But you're not driving."

"I can drive," Elara insisted, wiping her eyes. "I just-"

He opened the driver's door. He reached in, his hand closing around her wrist. His skin was hot against hers. The shock of the contact made her gasp.

"Elara," he said softly, for her ears only. "You're shaking. Get out."

She unbuckled her seatbelt. She climbed out, her legs wobbly. Julian didn't let go of her arm until she was steady on the pavement.

He pointed to the back seat. "Sit."

She opened the back door and slid in. Julian got into the driver's seat. He adjusted the mirror. His eyes met hers in the glass again.

He looked angry. But beneath the anger, Elara thought she saw a flicker of something else-relief.

---