POV Noelle
“I’m not doing this,” I said, voice sharp enough to slice through the conference room air.
The PR director, a man who looked allergic to compassion, didn’t blink. “Mrs. Tate, with your husband off-grid, your reputation is bleeding. The board wants stability. Sympathy. Control.”
“I’m not a product to rebrand,” I snapped.
“Of course not.” His smile was the kind people practiced in mirrors. “That’s why we’re hiring Julian Hart.”
My pen froze mid-signature. “Who?”
The door opened. And in walked trouble—tailored suit, lazy grin, the kind of charm that arrived before he did. His eyes were a warm amber, disarming and infuriating at once.
“Julian Hart,” he said smoothly, extending his hand. “Your fake boyfriend. Try to look a little less horrified.”
I didn’t take his hand. “You’re joking.”
The PR director cleared his throat. “Mr. Hart’s a crisis image consultant. His team has handled Hollywood scandals, political divorces, and royal affairs. You’ll be seen together publicly for six weeks—events, photos, interviews. The goal is to reframe your narrative: independent, strong, moving on.”
My pulse pounded. “Moving on? My husband isn’t dead.”
The director hesitated. “Not officially.”
That did it. I stood so fast my chair screeched. “This meeting’s over.”
But Julian blocked the door, hands raised in surrender. “Wait. Hear me out.”
“Move.”
He smiled faintly. “You think I like this any more than you do? But this isn’t about playing lovers—it’s about survival. You’ve got sharks circling, Noelle. Smile the wrong way, and they’ll eat you alive.”
I hated that he was right.
***
That night, the internet exploded: NOELLE TATE MOVES ON — SEEN WITH JULIAN HART AT THE VIOLET GALA.
The photos were carefully staged. His hand on my lower back, my laugh caught midair, the flash of a diamond bracelet I didn’t remember putting on.
In the shadows of every picture, I imagined Owen watching. And he was.
Rhea had told me—he still checked in through encrypted channels, sending word through her. “He’s watching the feeds,” she’d said quietly. “He needs to believe you’re safe.” But what she didn’t say—what she didn’t need to—was that safety and jealousy were the same monster in his chest.
I could feel it. Even across a thousand miles.
“Try smiling,” Julian murmured as we stepped out of the car the next night. “You look like you’re about to execute me.”
“I might,” I muttered, lips barely moving.
He laughed under his breath. “If it helps, my last client threw wine at me by week two.”
“Keep talking, and I’ll beat that record.”
The cameras flared like lightning as we walked up the carpet. He leaned close, whispering, “Hand on my arm. It’ll read better.”
I glared at him, but the truth was—I needed this to work. For Owen. For Luna. For the illusion that our world hadn’t already burned to ash.
So I looped my arm through his, smiled for the vultures, and became the woman they wanted to see: radiant, resilient, perfectly composed.
Inside, though, my heart was a fist.
Later, in the car, Julian loosened his tie and looked at me sideways. “You hate this more than I thought possible.”
“Congratulations on your observation skills,” I said dryly.
He laughed. “You remind me of my sister.”
I arched a brow. “That’s the line you use to make women trust you?”
“Only the ones who look like they could stab me.”
That made me laugh, despite myself. His smile softened. “There it is. Humanity.”
I turned toward the window. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But only because I like puzzles. You, Noelle Tate, are a puzzle with teeth.”
I almost said something biting, but my phone buzzed before I could. A message from an unknown number: Stop smiling for him. You don’t belong to that world. Owen. My throat closed. I typed back quickly, Stop watching me. You have a job to do.
The reply came instantly. So do you. Stay alive.
I locked the phone before Julian could see the screen. He noticed anyway. “Boyfriend checking in?”
I turned my head sharply. “You’re not funny.”
“Never said I was.”
Three nights later, everything changed. Julian showed up unannounced, a laptop under his arm and a strange intensity in his eyes. “I need you to see something.”
“What now? Another photoshoot?”
“No. Something real.”
He set the laptop on the table and pulled up a series of files—encrypted message trails, offshore accounts, timestamps.
I frowned. “What am I looking at?”
“Kite’s mainframe. Or what’s left of it.”
I froze. “How—”
“Let’s just say I have friends who owe me favors. Hackers. Good ones.”
I stared at the scrolling code. “You can track him?”
He nodded. “We found a partial IP buried in an old server log. Whoever’s funding him operates through the same shell company Silas used five years ago.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. “You can prove it?”
“Not yet. But we can map it.”
We. I didn’t know whether to hug him or throw him out. “Why are you helping me?”
He leaned back, arms crossed. “Because you’re not the ice queen they said you were. You’re someone trying to keep a family alive in a world that wants her to break. And because, honestly, I like pissing off powerful men.”
I stared at him. “You know this could kill you.”
He shrugged. “Better to die doing something useful.”
“You sound like him,” I said softly.
“Your husband?”
I nodded. “He’d hate you.”
He grinned. “Then I’m definitely doing something right.”
We spent the next few hours combing through data, tracing threads that led nowhere and everywhere at once. Julian’s hands moved fast, his voice steady as he explained firewalls and decoys.
At one point, he glanced at me and said quietly, “You’re good at this.”
“At what?”
“Seeing patterns. Reading people.”
I smiled faintly. “I’ve been manipulated enough to recognize it.”
“Then use it,” he said. “Turn it back on them.”