Bea’s POV
I didn’t see Julian right away—but I felt him.
Like a gust of cold air in the middle of a heatwave, his presence sliced through the crowd, sharp and unmistakable. One second, Damien was leaning in close, voice smooth and warm as melted chocolate, his breath skimming the shell of my ear as he murmured something in French. I didn’t even understand it, but it didn’t matter. I laughed—freely, head tilted back, lips parted in a grin that felt reckless and good.
The kind of laugh that dared the room to watch.
And the room did shift. Not because of me.
Because of him.
The air cooled. Conversations faltered. Somewhere between the string quartet’s delicate notes and the clinking of champagne flutes, I felt it—Julian Wolfe’s attention, locked on me like a loaded gun.
I didn’t need to turn to know it was him. That electric pull, that tightening of the air like a thunderstorm crouching behind a velvet curtain? That was all Julian.
I glanced up—only for a second.
And there he was.
Across the ballroom, standing near the marble dais, jaw locked, shoulders squared, one hand wrapped around a crystal tumbler like he was daring it to crack. His eyes—dark, unblinking—burned through the distance between us like they had no intention of being subtle.
He looked like a man trying very hard not to destroy something beautiful. Or someone.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t interrupt the speech echoing across the room. But he moved.
I saw the exact moment he handed off his drink without looking—smooth, practiced, impatient. The way he stepped off the platform, his strides long, direct, absolute.
People moved out of his way. No one told them to. They just knew.
Julian didn’t walk. He approached. Like thunder in a tailored suit.
Damien was still talking, still smiling, still entirely unaware of the category-five storm closing in behind him. He lifted his hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear—right as Julian’s voice cracked through the space between us.
“Bea. A word. Now.”
Everything stopped. The music didn’t. But it felt like it did.
His tone wasn’t raised, but it didn’t need to be. It was cold steel wrapped in ice, and the chill of it licked down my spine. Not a question. Not a request. Just an order, clipped and sharp enough to make the air ache.
Damien blinked, confused, as if someone had just questioned his entire existence.
“Excuse me?” he said, tone light but eyes narrowing.
I didn’t answer. Not yet.
Because I wasn’t a pet he could summon. I stood there, letting the tension stretch like elastic between us, my chin held high, my silence a quiet rebellion.
Julian didn’t flinch. He didn’t so much as blink.
He looked at Damien like he was background noise. And then, slowly, his eyes locked on mine again. Unapologetic. Unrelenting. And unmistakably jealous.
“You’re here to assist me,” Julian said evenly, “not flirt with the competition.” It was deliberate. Loud enough for Damien to hear, quiet enough to sound casual. I stared at him, stunned, breath catching in my throat.
“Funny,” I said, lifting my chin, “I didn’t realize I was part of your inventory.” My voice didn’t shake, and that was a miracle.
I gave Damien a tight smile, muttered something about needing to take a call, and turned on my heel, following Julian through the crowd and behind a velvet curtain that blocked out just enough noise to let the tension breathe.
The second we were alone, I pulled free of his grip, nearly tripping on my gown in the process.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I hissed, voice low but sharp.
“You just humiliated me in front of half the European fashion elite.”
He didn’t look even a little sorry. His hands were at his sides, balled into fists, his eyes dark and unreadable.
“You really think they care about you?,” he said tightly.
“And you think you get to control the board?” I shot back, heat rising in my cheeks. “Let me guess, only you get to have secrets, only you get to touch and disappear, and if someone else looks at me for two seconds, you get to throw a tantrum?”
“You don’t know what you’re doing with him,” Julian growled. “He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t see you.”
My mouth dropped open. “Oh, but you do?” I hissed.
“You sleep with me, ignore me, insult me, then drag me out of a room like I’m your property, and now you think you get to be my protector?”
I took a step back, but he followed, closing the gap again. “This isn’t about protecting you.” I narrowed my eyes. “No, it’s about you not liking the fact that someone else does.”
He didn’t deny it. He didn’t say anything for a second, and I could see it—the way his mind was trying to calculate a version of this where he wasn’t the villain. But there wasn’t one. “
You’re twisting this,” he said. “No,” I whispered.
“I’m finally untwisting it. You don’t get to push me and pull me whenever it suits you, Julian.” My voice cracked, and I hated that he saw it. Hated more that he looked at me like he wanted to fix it—without ever taking responsibility for breaking it.
“If you didn’t want this, you shouldn’t have started it. And if you did, you should’ve fought for it instead of pretending it was a mistake.”
He didn’t touch me, but he moved in closer, and it felt like a touch. The tension in the air was unbearable, like the moment before lightning hits.
“He’ll never know what you need,” Julian said quietly. “You think that’s him seeing you? Saying you look good in a dress? You think that’s enough?” I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to hold back the burn in my chest.
“Maybe it is. Maybe kindness is more than you’re capable of.”
He blinked. Just once. And then, slowly, the edge of his control slipped.
His hand slammed against the wall beside my head.
The sound was quiet, but it vibrated in my spine. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t raise his voice. But his eyes burned into mine like a warning and a confession all at once. He leaned in, not quite touching, but closer than he had any right to be. And then he whispered it—low, guttural, wrecked.
“Damien doesn’t even know what to do with a woman like you.”