The Guardian’s Command

Julianna Vance

Cold condensation was running down the sides of the thick glass of champagne I held, dripping on the pristine cloth of my emerald silk dress. Around me, the grand ballroom of the Pierre Hotel was a blur of diamonds, tuxedos and the suffocating scent of expensive white lilies. It was my twenty-first birthday, the night high society had been gossiping about for months. The night Julianna Vance finally entered her kingdom.

Every flash of the camera in my face was a small victory. For three years I had been the ward of New York’s most austere billionaire, a prisoner to trust funds, allowances and mandatory curfews. But tonight the legal chains were supposed to break. In the public narrative, the multi-million dollar Vance industrial empire was officially mine to rule.

I sipped carefully from the vintage Dom Pérignon and scanned the crowd with my eyes until I found him.

Anthony Sterling stood outside the heavy arched entrance to the ballroom, a tight circle of older board members hanging on his every word. Even in a room full of the city’s elite, he ruled the room.

He was thirty-eight, broad-shouldered and sharply dressed in a custom-made three-piece charcoal tuxedo that looked more like a suit of armor than evening wear. His dark hair was combed back with surgical precision and his chiseled jawline was set in its habitual, inscrutable expression.

He didn’t look like the man who was going to hand over the keys to a kingdom. He looked like a king who was waiting for a peasant to finish her dance.

Anthony turned his head as if he felt my eyes upon him. His dark, analytical eyes looked at me over the busy floor. They gave off no warmth, no celebratory gleam. That cold, heavy intensity that always made my breath catch in my throat for pure, unadulterated frustration. I raised my glass to him, a mocking smile on my lips, and drank the rest of the champagne. Enjoy your last night of power, Anthony, I thought, tossing my cascading hair over my shoulder as I turned away. I don’t report to you tomorrow.

“Julianna, dear, you look so lovely,” a smooth, cultured voice purred to my left.

I looked around and there was Christian Davenport, stepping into my path, a polished, calculated smile on his face. Christian was forty-one, a cutthroat venture capitalist who’d spent the last five years trying to aggressively buy out my late father’s shipping lines.

He’d failed, because Anthony had blocked every single move. “Christian,” I murmured, allowing him to take my hand and press a superficial kiss to the knuckles. “I can’t believe Anthony let you get past the security detail.” Christian whispered, leaning in close enough that I could smell his cologne, something sharp and synthetic.

Anthony doesn’t own the Pierre, no matter how much he acts like he does. His eyes skimmed over the plunging neckline of my gown with a transactional appreciation. And tomorrow he won’t own you either. The board is already jittery about the transition. “If you need a ... guiding hand to help you navigate the estate, my office door is always open.”Before I could answer a shadow passed over us. In our little corner of the ballroom the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees in an instant.

“Davenport,” a deep, authoritative baritone boomed out from behind me.

The sound vibrated down my spine, a heavy, masculine frequency that made my pulse leap right away. I didn’t even have to turn around to know it was Anthony.

Christian’s smile went hard, his hand dropping from mine as he rolled up the cuffs of his suit. Sterling. “Just wishing the birthday girl well.

”You have wished her well. “Go on,” said Anthony. He didn’t raise his voice. It was the quiet, total command that allowed no argument. He didn’t look at Christian. His eyes were riveted on the side of my face, following the flush that was creeping up my neck.

Christian cleared his throat, gave me a tight meaningful nod, and melted away into the crowd like a wolf being chased from the scene by a much larger predator.

I flipped on my guardian, my heels clicking a staccato on the polished marble floor. You have no right to tell me who I speak to Anthony.” In case you’ve forgotten, it’s just struck midnight. “I am twenty-one.

Anthony’s face was a perfect mask, hard and unyielding, looking down at me. He reached out, his big warm hand coming down to grip my elbow. His touch was not gentle but heavy, his calloused thumb pressing against my skin through the thin silk of my sleeve.

"The Library, Now.” he whispered, his voice slicing through the rising swell of the orchestra music behind them.

“I am in the middle of my own gala—”

“Julianna,” he interrupted, dark eyes narrowing slightly. He didn’t say it again. He turned and started walking towards the private wing of the hotel, his iron grip on my elbow forcing me to keep up with his long, measured strides.

My anger erupted, a white-hot wave of rebellion flowing through me. I wanted to pull away, create a scene in front of the New York Times photographers, but the sheer weight of his presence kept me moving. He strode through the corridors with an air of absolute authority, pushed open the heavy mahogany doors to the hotel’s private library and ushered me in.

The doors clicked shut behind us, the heavy brass lock turning with a definitive snap, a metallic sound that was terrifyingly absolute.

The library was dark except for the amber light of a huge fireplace and one lamp on the desk. The walls were lined with books, bound in leather, and smelling of dust and old money. Anthony let go of my arm and walked across the room to the heavy executive desk in the middle of the room. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He unfastened his tuxedo jacket carefully, the material parting to reveal the tailored waistcoat underneath, and he fished in his breast pocket.

He drew out a thick legal document in a blue cardstock cover and laid it out on the desk.

“What’s that?” I demanded, my breath shallow as I stood on the Persian rug, arms crossed over my chest. “My papers of inheritance? Fine. Pass me the pen so I can sign them and get out of your house.

"Sit down, Julianna." Anthony leaned back in the leather executive chair, crossing long legs at the knee. He reached for his wire-rimmed reading glasses and pushed them up on the bridge of his nose, making him look completely aloof, like a judge about to read a sentence.

“I’d prefer to stand.“Suit yourself,” he said and his eyes moved down the first page. “This is the last codicil of your father’s will, written six months before he died. “You appear to be under the impression that a twenty-first birthday gives one complete and utter autonomy over the Vance estate.

”It does. The law says---“

"Well, the law says your father could set up his trust any way he wanted to,” Anthony said, his baritone dropping an octave to a flat, clinical tone. "Julianna, the titles pass to you. You get the properties. But the capital itself—the voting shares, the liquidity, the corporate accounts—are all under my control as sole executor. Permanent. Until I think you’re ready for them.”

Like a physical blow the words fell. The room was tilting, the warmth from the fireplace suddenly like a hot, suffocating heat. I shook my head. “No,” I whispered, and stepped forward, my hands shaking as I gripped the edge of his desk. No, that is not true. You are playing with the paperwork.

“You just want to keep me under your thumb!”Anthony didn’t flinch. He slowly took off his glasses and set them down on the blue cardstock with a quiet click. He stood up, his big square-shouldered form towering over me, and cutting off what little distance there was left between us.

“I don’t lie, Julianna,” he said, stepping out from behind the desk. His eyes roamed over me, to the way my chest rose and fell so quickly, to the colour of my knuckles on the mahogany. “For three years I have watched you run wild through this city. You waste money like water, you hobnob with sycophants like Davenport, and you treat your reputation like a plaything. Your father knew just what you were. He knew that if you didn’t have a strong hand you’d ruin yourself before you were twenty-five.”

“I hate you,” I spat, tears of pure, raging frustration stinging the corners of my eyes. I lifted my hand, with a wild, reckless impulse to slap the cold, arrogant look off his face.

“I hate you more than all the world!” My hand moved forward, but never touched. Anthony moved in a blur of brutal efficiency. His big hand caught my wrist in mid-air, his grip like steel handcuffs. He didn’t twist me or hurt me, but the sheer, unyielding mass of his strength stopped me in my tracks. He pulled my arm down, forcing me to take a step closer, my stomach against his waistcoat. I felt the intense, burning radiation of his body heat, smelt the raw, masculine scent of him wrap around my senses.

“Your defiance is entirely predictable, Julianna,” he whispered, his face inches from mine, dark eyes boring straight into my soul. But tonight your rebellion is over. Do you want to act like an undisciplined child? Then you will be treated as such. No more unmonitored accounts. There won’t be any more parties with trust-fund playboys at midnight. “From now on every dollar you spend, every house you go to, every person you talk to is screened by me.

“You can’t do this,” I whimpered, my voice cracking as the realisation that I was still a prisoner sank deep into my gut. But underneath the deep anger there was a strange, scary feeling starting to coil in my lower belly, a rush of heat coming on suddenly and electrically, the result of the total dominance of his grip.

“I can,” Anthony growled low, his free hand coming up to grip the chin on my free hand, his fingers squeezing hard enough to force me to look up into his dark, uncompromising eyes. “And I shall. Tomorrow morning, at eight o’clock sharp, you’ll be in my study with a full ledger of your expenses for the past month.” “If you are a minute late, Julianna... I will show you a system of discipline that is not a matter of paperwork.”

He released me suddenly, and the sudden loss of his weight made me stumble back a step. He turned, buttoning up his tuxedo jacket smoothly as if nothing had happened, and headed for the library doors.

I was alone on the rug, my wrist still vibrating with the weight of his fingers, my core throbbing with a heavy, wet warmth I couldn’t understand. The bad girl of New York society had just been given her orders -- and for the first time in my life I knew that I was powerless to break them.