Bea’s POV
It’s dangerous what a dress can do to your sense of control. One second I was just Bea—assistant, temp, chaos manager—and the next, I was stepping out in black velvet that made strangers stare. The gown wrapped around me like it had something to prove. My hair was pinned up just enough to reveal the slope of my neck, my lipstick dared anyone to look away, and my heels clicked like punctuation. Damien stood waiting in the hotel corridor, his bowtie slightly loose, his smile very real. “You look…” he said, then paused. “Like every regret a man wishes he could make twice.” I laughed, but something in my stomach twisted. I didn’t know if it was the nerves or the ghost of someone else’s gaze I couldn’t shake.
The car ride to the gala sparkled with Damien’s charm. He complimented my laugh, quoted poetry I didn’t expect from a man in fashion, and touched my hand gently like I might disappear if he pressed too hard. I tried to focus on him—his warmth, his attentiveness—but my mind flickered with thoughts of someone who wasn’t supposed to matter anymore. My phone buzzed once in my clutch, and I didn’t even look. If Julian wanted to say something, he’d missed his chance. So I silenced it, sat straighter, and smiled. Damien’s fingers skimmed my wrist as he said, “Tonight, let them see you.” And I decided I would.
The moment we stepped out of the car, flashbulbs exploded. Cameras snapped like gunfire, paparazzi shouting names, trying to get angles of me they didn’t even know they wanted until I walked in next to Damien. I kept my eyes forward, smile smooth, heart banging in my chest. We entered the grand museum lit up like a dream—chandeliers hanging above golden staircases, music drifting in velvet tones from the live quartet. I felt eyes on me from every direction, and for once, I didn’t flinch. Damien whispered, “They don’t expect someone like you to carry this room, but you’re doing it.” And I believed him. Because in that moment, I wanted to.
The gala was a blur of glittering gowns and polite lies. People sipped champagne and shared secrets behind practiced smiles. Damien kept his hand at the small of my back like a quiet promise, and I let him. I let myself laugh at his jokes, lean in when he whispered compliments, pretend this whole thing didn’t feel like borrowed time. I didn’t ask about Julian. I didn’t wonder if he was watching. I told myself that if he wanted to fight, he would have shown up by now. And just as I let that thought settle, the room shifted.
I didn’t see him at first. I felt him. The air changed—like the temperature had dropped and every voice around us dimmed. I turned just as the crowd began parting near the entrance, and there he was. Julian Wolfe. Dark suit. Hands in his pockets. Fury carved into his face like stone. He moved like he owned the floor, like the art hanging on the walls would bow to let him pass. His gaze locked on me, unreadable and wild beneath control. Damien noticed him a second later. “He wouldn’t,” he muttered. I knew better. Julian didn’t ask. Julian acted.
He crossed the room like a storm, not sparing a glance for anyone else, not slowing down until he was standing right in front of me. His hand landed on my waist—possessive, firm—and before I could even react, he pulled me close and kissed me.
There was no warning. No softness. Just heat and certainty and the sound of a hundred cameras clicking at once.
The room erupted. Some gasped. Some stared. Some grinned behind champagne glasses. Damien froze beside me, and I stood stiff in Julian’s grip, lips still tingling from the force of his claim. He didn’t let go. He turned to face the press and said with terrifying calm, “Yes. We’re together.” His arm didn’t move from my waist. His voice didn’t falter. And just like that, my entire world tilted.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn't think. Couldn’t move. This wasn’t a kiss—it was a stake in the ground.
Damien’s face twisted. Hurt first, then fury. “Are you serious?” he snapped, voice low and tight. “This is what you wanted?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. Didn’t give me the chance. He turned, shoved past a cluster of stunned designers, and disappeared into the sea of glitter and shock. I tried to follow, but Julian’s hand didn’t let go. “Julian,” I hissed. “Let me go.” He turned to me then, closer than was reasonable in public, his expression unreadable.
“You’re with me now,” he said.
I stared at him, stunned. “What the hell was that?” I asked. “Your press debut?” His jaw clenched. “I did what you wouldn’t.” “And what’s that?” I snapped. “Turn me into a headline?” His voice lowered to a whisper, hot against my ear. “I told you I wasn’t hiding you. Now the world knows.” My chest heaved. “You did it to spite Damien.” “I did it,” he said firmly, “because I couldn’t watch someone else touch what’s mine.”
I froze. He didn’t say sorry. He didn’t say please. He said mine.
I shook my head, still reeling. “You don’t get to do this now.” He stepped closer, and even surrounded by flashing lights and curious eyes, he made me feel like we were the only two people in the world. “You walked in here pretending I don’t matter,” he said. “I reminded you I do.”
And then, leaning in again, voice low, dangerous, and intimate. “Don’t make me look like a liar now.”