Bea’s POV
Waking up next to Julian Wolfe should’ve felt like a fantasy,white sheets, Paris skyline, his scent clinging to the air like a broken promise, but instead, it felt like regret on a gold-plated tray.
My eyes opened to find his side of the bed empty. The silky warmth he left behind had already cooled. I sat up, dazed, trying to slow the pounding in my chest. There was no soft morning-after glow, no sleepy grin or teasing remark. Just the sound of buttons being fastened and a man who already looked like he’d erased me from the story.
He stood by the floor-length mirror, shirt half-done, tie slung loose around his neck. Sharp. Composed. Detached. The man who kissed me like he needed me last night was gone, replaced by the executive who didn’t flinch when firing someone before breakfast. He didn’t look at me when he spoke, didn’t even offer the grace of eye contact.
“Let’s forget it happened,” he said, flatly.
It hit harder than a slap. I pulled the sheet tighter around me, my skin prickling like his words had left a burn. My voice wavered but I held it firm. “One mistake I can handle, Julian. But two?”
He paused, tie still dangling between his hands. His head turned slightly, but his face stayed unreadable. “Excuse me?”
I rose from the bed, wrapping the sheet around me like armor. My heart pounded so loud I was sure he could hear it, but I wasn’t about to let him see how deep the cut went. “A donkey doesn’t hit the same stone twice,” I said evenly. “So what’s your excuse?”
He stared, jaw clenched, but didn’t respond. Silence swallowed the space between us.
A silence louder than yelling, heavier than any insult. And then, with a flick of his wrist, he tightened his tie, adjusted his watch, and walked out the door without another word—leaving me in his penthouse suite like a leftover from room service.
I stood there for a while, too stunned to move, the sting of humiliation settling over me like frost. He didn’t even look back. No apology. No acknowledgment. Just gone, like it had never happened. Like I had never happened.
The shower scalded my skin but didn’t cleanse the ache clinging to my chest. I scrubbed until my arms ached, but nothing washed away the echo of his voice.
I hated how much it hurt. Hated that I let it mean something. Hated that a man like him could get under my skin and rearrange every part of me just by pulling away. I stared into the mirror, wrapped in a towel, mascara smudged and heart hollow. Then I pulled myself together the only way I knew how—lipstick like war paint, curls pinned high, and a dress sharp enough to wound.
When Celine arrived with the gown for that night’s event, I didn’t flinch at the boldness of it. Crimson silk. Deep neckline. A slit that whispered danger with every step. She didn’t ask what happened. She just zipped me up, stepped back, and smiled like she’d built a weapon.
“Tonight,” she said, her accent rich, “you make him regret.” And I intended to.
The event was chaos disguised as elegance. Cameras flashed. Voices clashed over champagne flutes. The room buzzed with tension and perfume and backhanded compliments. I stepped out of the car alone, but I walked in like I owned the floor. I wasn’t here to hide. Not for him. Not anymore. The gown hugged my body like it belonged there. Heads turned. Whispers followed. Good.
Julian stood across the room, framed by cold lighting and colder company. He wore another perfect suit, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Our gazes locked, just for a second. Then he looked away. Like I was a background blur. Like he hadn’t once touched me like I was scared. My fingers tightened around the clutch in my hand. I wouldn’t break. Not in front of him. Especially not now.
I drifted through the room with a practiced grace, weaving between designers, editors, and models who barely glanced up from their own reflections. I was halfway to the bar when I heard a familiar voice behind me. A voice that didn’t make me flinch.
“Beatriz.”
I turned and saw Damien.
He looked devastating in a black velvet tux, one hand holding a glass of something expensive, the other already offering itself to me like he’d been waiting all night. His smile lit up something cold in my chest. I took his hand.
“You look…” He paused, his eyes running over the silk, the slit, the neckline. “…like a sin someone would happily die for.”
I laughed, for real this time. Not to be polite. Not to make a point. But because it felt good to be seen. “You’re dangerous,” I said. He leaned in, voice low. “And you’re lethal.”
We moved through the room like the night belonged to us. I didn’t think about Julian. I didn’t need to. Not when Damien looked at me like I mattered, like I wasn’t something to be hidden or forgotten. I let myself enjoy the warmth of attention that didn’t come with strings or shame. Let myself laugh without fear of being punished for it later.
He led me to the side of the ballroom, where the music softened and the light turned amber. “Tell me,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek, “does he even know what he has?”
I froze for a second, the question slicing deeper than he knew. He didn’t wait for me to answer. Instead, he stepped closer, leaned in just enough to brush his lips near my ear, and whispered—
“You look like sin in silk. Does he even see you?”