CHAPTER 11
POPPY
The cocktail party was a disaster.
Not the drinks. Not my family—Violet was radiant, Chris was attentive, and even my mother limited herself to only two passive-aggressive comments about my “little internet hobby.” Preston and Serenity kept their distance, which was the best outcome I could have hoped for.
My phone buzzes. Violet.
VIOLET: You okay? Mom was in rare form tonight
ME: I’m fine. Used to it by now
VIOLET: I know but still. Don’t let her get to you
VIOLET: You know how she is. Ever since Dad left she’s convinced any choice that isn’t safe and boring leads to disaster
ME: I know
VIOLET: Your job isn’t a disaster. Julian isn’t a disaster. She’s just scared
ME: Scared of what?
VIOLET: That you’ll end up like her
I stare at the message. Violet’s not wrong.
Our father walked out when I was twelve—chased some business opportunity to Singapore that turned out to be as real as his commitment to our family.
Mom rebuilt everything from scratch: the house, the finances, her entire identity.
She did it through sheer force of will and a conviction that passion was just another word for poor judgment.
No wonder she hates my career choice. To her, “influencer” probably sounds like “dreamer”—and dreamers destroy families.
ME: Thanks Vi
VIOLET: Always. Now get some sleep. Big day tomorrow
VIOLET: And Pops?
ME: Yeah?
VIOLET: He seems good. Julian. Like actually good
ME: I think he might be
VIOLET: I love it
No, even my mom wasn’t what made the cocktail party a disaster. I’d gotten used to her being that way.
The real disaster was Julian.
Or rather, the version of Julian that showed up after that man appeared at the cocktail party.
Damien. Even his name felt like something out of a gothic novel—too dramatic, too on-the-nose.
The way he’d looked at Julian, like they were the only two people on that terrace.
The way Julian had gone still, that eerie predator-stillness I’d noticed before but never quite this intense.
And then that comment about Prague. About a woman. About screaming.
I try to ask Julian about it on the walk back to our room. He shuts me down so fast it gives me whiplash.
“Not now. Please. Not now.”
The “please” was what got me. Julian didn’t say please. Julian gave orders dressed up as suggestions, made requests that sounded like statements of fact. But that single word had cracked something open, revealed a glimpse of something raw underneath all that polished control.
Now we’re back in the suite, and Julian has barely spoken ten words since we walked through the door.
He’s standing at the window, and I have no idea what to say to him.
What to ask. I’m not even sure that I have the right to ask anything, given that this is a business arrangement.
Whatever history he has with that man is precisely none of my business.
Except it felt like my business. The way Damien had looked at me when he said “girlfriend”—like the word amused him, like I was a punchline to a joke I didn’t understand.
The way he’d mentioned “collecting humans” like it was something Julian did.
Like I was just the latest addition to his collection.
I shake off the thought. Focus on what I can control.
The suite. The suite is everything I asked for in the Excel spreadsheet I sent Vi.
Yes, I made an Excel spreadsheet for her.
Column A: Must-Haves. Column B: Nice-to-Haves.
Column C: Do Not Under Any Circumstances Unless You Want a Bridesmaid Meltdown.
The suite hits every mark in Column A—spacious layout, private balcony, sitting area where I can set up my ring light for morning content.
Two bedrooms, which I requested because I wasn’t sure what this thing with Julian was becoming, and I needed the option to retreat to my own space if pretending became too much.
Now a part of me hopes we don’t need two. But as I watch Julian, it worries me that he’ll need a break from me.
I shake off the thought again. It has nothing to do with me; it is all about Damien. Something about him tears at Julian—I just need to give him some space until he’s ready to talk about it.
So I kick off my heels—something I’ve been dying to do since we got to the cocktail party—and sink into the couch.
My feet are screaming from maintaining my posture for the past two hours, trying to pretend everything was normal.
The air conditioning hits my skin, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
One event down. Three more days of performing for my family, and then this whole elaborate charade is over.
But here’s the thing... I don’t want it to be over.
Julian is amazing. Earlier today, before everything went sideways, he handled everything—the luggage, the car, the resort check-in. I watched him do all of this without breaking a sweat, like the world just rearranges itself around him when he wants something.
That version of Julian was impressive. Capable.
Almost intoxicating to watch. This version—the one standing at the window like a statue, radiating tension I can almost taste—is something else entirely.
Something that’s starting to feel less like careful control and more like a cage barely containing what’s inside.
“Thank you,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “For what you said to my mom earlier. And to Preston. Before—” I hesitate. Before that man showed up. Before you turned into someone I didn’t recognize. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did.”
He turns from the window. Starts loosening his tie, and something about the gesture feels more intimate than it should. The way his fingers work the knot—gentle, unhurried. The way his collar falls open, revealing a sliver of pale throat.
“That’s what you’re paying me for,” he adds.
And just like that, the warmth drains out of the room.
“Right.” I look away, toward the balcony. “The money. I keep forgetting this is a transaction for you.”
“Don’t.”
The word comes out harsher than anything he’s said to me before. Sharp. Almost angry. I flinch, and I hate that I flinch, and I hate that he notices, and I hate that his expression flickers with something that looks almost like regret.
“I’m going to change for dinner,” I manage. “Give me twenty minutes.”
I disappear into my bedroom and close the door, pressing my hand against the wood, trying to remember how to breathe.
Here’s what I know: Julian Blackthorne is a professional.
I hired him for a job. He is executing that job flawlessly—defending me from my mother’s passive-aggressive comments about my “little internet thing,” intimidating Preston with a single look that made my ex-fiancé actually take a step backward, charming my sister’s bridesmaids with that old-world politeness that makes everyone feel slightly underdressed and thoroughly delighted.
Here’s what I don’t know: why my chest aches every time he reminds me this is fake.
I catalog the evidence while I unzip my suitcase and pull out the blue dress.
The one that matches my eyes, according to three different Instagram commenters.
I’m aware it’s pathetic that I’m wearing a dress the internet chose.
That’s not the worst part; I’m doing it because a stranger I’m paying complimented the color green—but I don’t own anything green.
So blue is the next best thing. Why am I overthinking this?
Evidence for “Julian is just doing his job”:
He took my money (all of it)
He maintains physical distance unless we’re being observed
He never initiates contact outside of staged moments
He deflects every personal question with answers that sound rehearsed
He just reminded me—again—that this is a transaction
His phone keeps buzzing with messages he doesn’t share
He watches everything like he’s assessing threats
Evidence for “something else is happening”:
The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching
The dinner where he said “I find that first impressions matter. I’d like ours to start properly”
His voice when he said I was worth persisting for
The text at 3 AM where he said he was “remembering” what this felt like
The fact that he rearranged his entire schedule for me
The way he just said “don’t” like it hurt him to remind me
The way his hand trembles sometimes when he touches me
The fact that he bought me an emerald dress that fits perfectly
I step into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. Blue dress. Hair down. Makeup reapplied over the exhaustion I can’t quite hide. The dark circles under my eyes are doing their best to peek through my concealer.
I look like someone trying very hard to be worth loving.
I hate this. I hate that I’m standing in a resort bathroom making lists about whether a man I’m paying actually cares about me.
I hate that I can’t tell the difference between real and performed anymore—in him or in myself.
I hate that Preston broke something in me when he left, and now I’m so desperate for genuine connection that I’m projecting it onto a business arrangement.
“Get it together, Poppy Rose,” I mutter at my reflection. “You’re a professional. Act like one.”
My reflection doesn’t look convinced.
I spend fifteen minutes on my makeup, which is ten minutes more than necessary but gives me time to think.
Or overthink. Same thing, really. By the time I emerge, I’ve constructed a narrative that I’m almost able to believe: Julian is doing his job, doing it well, and any emotions I’m reading into the situation are my own projection.
He’s an excellent actor. That’s why I hired him. That’s what I’m paying for.
Case closed. Mystery solved. Time to perform.
When I step back into the sitting area, Julian is standing near the window with his back to the room. He’s changed, too—different shirt.
Is everything he owns tailored to fit him just right?