[Julian’s POV]
The quarterly showcase is already in full swing when I arrive, fashionably late by executive standards and annoyingly punctual by human ones.
Our company building has been transformed into something almost unrecognizable—dim lighting, branded backdrops, and more champagne than any corporate event reasonably requires.
Someone in event planning clearly received a blank check and ran with it.
I grab a glass from a passing server and position myself near the refreshment table, which offers an excellent vantage point for observing without participating.
Strategic wallflower behavior. It's a skill I've perfected over years of mandatory networking events where the alternative is making small talk about golf handicaps and quarterly projections.
What I didn't expect was the LuxeGlow Beauty banner hanging prominently over the main stage. Since when is our quarterly showcase tied to a beauty brand campaign?
"Julian! My man!" Nathan materializes beside me like a cologne-drenched apparition, clapping my shoulder with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who just discovered bacon.
His tie is slightly crooked, his smile aggressively charming. Sales. Of course.
"Can you believe this setup? The company really outdid themselves."
I take a measured sip of champagne. "Nathan. I wasn't aware we were partnering with cosmetics companies now."
"Neither was I until yesterday, but who cares about the details when the real attraction is…" He pauses for dramatic effect, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Have you seen her yet? One of the models they brought in? Viola?"
The name means nothing to me. "Can't say I have."
Nathan's eyes practically glaze over, and I immediately regret not walking away thirty seconds ago.
"Julian. Brother. This woman is something else. I've been following her on social media for months—she's got this platinum hair, these green eyes that could make a man forget his own name, and her body..."
He makes a shape with his hands that I'd rather not acknowledge.
"Curves that could stop traffic. Absolute goddess."
My jaw tightens involuntarily. There's something deeply irritating about the way he's describing her—like she's a commodity, a trophy waiting to be won.
Nathan Cole has always struck me as the type who sees women as conquest opportunities rather than actual human beings. The kind of man who counts his relationships like notches on a belt.
"Sounds like you've put considerable research into this," I say dryly.
"Man, you have no idea. When she walks into a room, every head turns. Every. Single. One. She's got this confidence, this presence…"
He gestures vaguely, apparently lost for words that aren't crude.
"Tonight's the night I finally make my move. She's going to be modeling for LuxeGlow, doing photos, the whole thing. I'm going to introduce myself properly."
I find myself hoping, for this woman's sake, that she has excellent security.
Or at least a very sharp elbow.
The event continues around us—executives mingling, clients schmoozing, the usual corporate theater that I've learned to navigate on autopilot.
I'm only half-listening to Nathan's continued monologue about Viola's various physical attributes when the room seems to shift. Conversations falter. Heads turn toward the main entrance.
And then I see her.
The woman walks in like she owns the building, platinum blonde hair cascading over bare shoulders, emerald eyes catching the light. Her dress is black, clinging to curves that Nathan's crude hand gestures didn't do justice.
She moves with practiced confidence, chin high, heels clicking against the floor with deliberate precision.
But something about her feels... familiar.
I can't place it. Not the hair—I don't know any platinum blondes. Not the eyes—those green contacts are clearly doing their job.
But there's something in the way she carries herself. The slight tilt of her head, the almost-nervous flutter of her fingers against her clutch before she catches herself and smoothes it into poise.
"That's her," Nathan breathes beside me, and I'd forgotten he was there. "That's Viola."
She is, objectively, stunning. The kind of beautiful that makes photographers weep with gratitude and men lose their capacity for intelligent speech.
But my curiosity isn't about her beauty—it's about that nagging sense of recognition that I can't quite shake.
Where have I seen her before?
The evening progresses in predictable fashion. Viola poses for the LuxeGlow photographers alongside several other models, effortlessly commanding attention while somehow maintaining an air of mysterious aloofness.
Nathan hovers at the edges of her orbit like a moth drawn to flame, too intimidated to approach directly but too obsessed to look away.
I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
I find myself watching her more than the presentations. There's a moment—brief, barely noticeable—when she laughs at something a makeup artist says, and the sound triggers something in my memory.
A ghost of recognition that dissolves before I can grasp it.
Then the event organizer takes the stage, microphone in hand.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a surprise announcement! As part of tonight's charity component, we're holding a very special silent auction—dinner dates with our stunning LuxeGlow models! All proceeds go to the children's literacy foundation."
She gestures toward the lineup of models, Viola among them.
"Simply write the model's name and your bid on the auction cards being passed around. Winners will be contacted privately!"
The room erupts in murmurs. Nathan's eyes lock onto Viola with possessive hunger that makes my skin crawl.
Across the crowd, I notice Grayson Smith—our CEO, silver-templed and eternally composed—setting down his champagne glass with calculated interest, his gaze also fixed on her.
Of course he's interested. The man collects beautiful things the way some people collect stamps.
This is ridiculous. A dinner date auction? It's archaic, objectifying, and exactly the kind of spectacle I normally avoid with religious fervor.
I have no reason to participate. None whatsoever. The woman is a stranger, a social media influencer playing dress-up at a corporate event.
And yet… That familiarity gnaws at me.
The way she holds herself, equal parts confidence and concealed anxiety. The almost imperceptible way she scans exits, like someone who's learned to always know where the escape routes are.
The auction cards are passed around. Nathan scribbles Viola's name and a number with barely contained excitement. Grayson accepts his card with the serene confidence of a man who always gets what he wants.
I tell myself I'm not going to bid. It's frivolous. Unprofessional. Completely beneath my dignity as a senior manager who prides himself on maintaining appropriate boundaries.
My pen touches the card anyway.
I write down her name—Viola—and a number that's substantial but not obscene, then hand the card to the passing collector before I can talk myself out of it.
What am I doing? This isn't like me.
I don't bid on dinner dates with models I've never met. I don't compete with Nathan Cole for anyone's attention. But something about Viola won't let me walk away.
Some instinct I can't name insists that there's more to her than platinum hair and green contacts. That beneath the glamorous surface is someone I should recognize, someone I might already know.
Probably just the champagne talking.
I watch her from across the room as the auction cards are collected, and for one brief moment, her eyes meet mine. Something flickers in her expression before she looks away.
Why does everything about her feel like a puzzle I'm supposed to solve?