Bea’s POV
Later that day, I realized there are worse ways to die than in four-inch heels and panic sweat, but I wasn’t eager to test the theory.
“We’re going,” Julian had announced that morning, dropping an embossed invite on my desk like it was a warning shot.
“Tonight. The show starts at seven. Try not to embarrass the brand.” His tone was as dry as the gin I’d seen him throw back yesterday in the lounge.
I barely had time to ask where or why before he added, “You want to keep this job? Earn your paycheck.”
And just like that, I found myself scrambling to coordinate my outfit, memorize the names of a dozen designers, and Google which influencers had beef with each other, because apparently, fashion feuds were bloodsport with a lighting budget.
By the time we arrived at the venue, a glass-walled rooftop with chandeliers floating like clouds—I was running on nerves and sheer willpower.
The city lights blurred beneath us, and the people around me glittered like champagne bubbles: long legs, sharper cheekbones, conversations that sounded like magazine headlines.
I tried to look like I belonged in my black silk dress and pointed heels, even as my stomach twisted into origami. Julian walked a few steps ahead, calm as ever in his tailored charcoal suit, checking his watch like he was timing my descent into failure.
Then he leaned close and muttered under his breath, “Memorize the seating chart. If an influencer ends up next to someone they blocked last year, this implodes, and it’s on you.”
I nodded without hesitation, though my hands were already damp around the folded chart. I scanned it fast, faster, committing every row, every feud, every name with a mental highlighter. And when it was go-time, I nailed it. I smiled, directed, and charmed. I redirected a plus-one to avoid a scandal, moved a fashion editor when I saw her eyes narrow at her ex’s new girlfriend, and even made one TikTok star laugh. By the time the final model walked, the event hadn’t just survived, it had glided. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I hadn’t just shown up, I’d showed off.
After the applause died down and the lights dimmed, Julian appeared at my side again. “You didn’t screw it up,” he said, as if that was the highest praise he was allowed to give. I raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for more. “Come on,” he added, nodding toward a velvet rope. “Drinks.”
The VIP lounge was quieter, darker, laced with a red glow that made everything feel warmer than it was. Gold-trimmed booths lined the room like secrets waiting to be told. He ordered a whiskey neat. I went with a red wine, because I needed something to cling to that felt fancy without being fussy. The first sip burned, but in a good way. The second went down easier. The third made everything feel a little softer around the edges.
Julian was different here. Less cold steel, more low smirk. He talked about how the show had been stitched together in just ten days, how one designer had flown in with twenty pieces and a panic attack, how his father would’ve called the entire event “fluff” but tracked the ROI like a hawk. I listened. Not because I had to, but because when his guard dropped, his voice changed. It lost its bite. His eyes didn’t scan like weapons anymore. They just… looked.
At some point, our knees brushed under the table. Not on purpose. Not at first.
But neither of us moved.
His jacket had slipped open. His sleeves were rolled up. And I could smell the clean spice of his cologne under all the velvet lighting and vodka mist. When I laughed at something he said—a real laugh, not one of the polite office ones—he smiled. And not that tense, PR-smile he used on investors. This one was crooked. Quiet. Like he forgot he was wearing it.
The car ride back to the office was silent, but not in the usual way. Not in that cold, brittle silence we usually lived in. This one was warmer.
He was sitting too close. His hand brushed against my leg every time he shifted gears—once, then again. The wine coursing through my veins made everything feel a bit surreal, but I knew what was happening. I knew what it meant when he looked at me like that.
When we hit a red light, he leaned in. Intentional. His eyes flicked to my lips like he was watching something dangerous he’d decided not to avoid.
My breath caught. My heart jumped so high it almost hit my throat.
“Why are you looking at me like that?,” I whispered, though my voice didn’t sound like mine.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he kissed me like he was starved.
There was no hesitation, no warning. His hand cupped the back of my neck, his mouth moved like he meant it, like he’d been thinking about it for far too long. And for one breathless second, I let myself want it. I want him.
Then I pulled back. Sharp. Clean.
My heart was a hammer against my ribs. My lipstick was probably a mess. My thoughts definitely were.
“You hate me,” I said, my breath still shaky. “Remember?” His lips ghosted against mine, still close enough to taste the lie. And then he smirked. “Not today.”