11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Julian
T he limo rolls to a stop, and I step out first, greeted by a blinding storm of camera flashes. The red carpet stretches ahead—a sleek expanse of deep sapphire and silver, banners emblazoned with The Sun Will Forget Us , the title glowing under the lights like a prophecy. Reporters hover at the edges, celebrities move with calculated grace, and the air hums with the kind of anticipation that only exists in places built on illusion.
I turn back, offering my hand. Ophelia hesitates for a heartbeat before taking it.
The moment she steps out, the cameras shift. The attention is hers. And for once, she doesn’t run from it.
I watch her, and for a second—just a second—I forget where we are.
She is stunning. Not in the way Hollywood expects, all artifice and pretense, but in a way that demands to be seen.
Her dress is dark as ink, sleek as liquid shadow, reflecting the lights in a way that makes her look untouchable. The fabric molds to her, elegant but effortless, as if it was made for her and no one else. Her skin glows beneath the lights—bare at the shoulders, radiant beneath the camera flashes, like she’s something more than mortal.
Her hair is swept back, exposing the delicate curve of her throat, the sharp angles of her jawline. Minimal makeup—except for her lips, painted in a red so dark it borders on sinful.
I smirk.
A contradiction. Always. Sharp edges wrapped in something deceptively soft. A work of art that no one else is allowed to touch.
I tighten my grip on her fingers, drawing her just close enough that she knows she belongs to me. And tonight, the world will know it.
I look over to my left and I see Dominic posing alone on the carpet. It looks like Melanie already walked, probably wanting to go first. Now he is there, by himself, but he isn't looking at the cameras. He's looking at us.
He finishes with the reporters and walks over.
"Ophelia," he says, voice clipped. "Really? The guy you danced with?"
I smirk, but I don’t say anything. Not yet. Ophelia, though—she doesn’t hesitate.
"Yeah," she says, sweet as poison. "At your wedding. Remember, Dominic?"
Dominic’s jaw tightens. Good.
"This isn’t a game," he mutters.
"Oh, trust me. I know. You made that pretty clear when you married my sister six months after we broke up."
The words land like a blade, and he exhales sharply—like she’s being cruel, like he has the right to be angry.
"I didn’t think—"
"No, you didn’t," she cuts in smoothly, tilting her head. "And now you don’t get to think about me at all."
Dominic’s fingers flex at his sides. He’s losing control.
"I don’t even know him," he says, frustration bleeding into every word. "He doesn’t run in our circles, Ophelia."
"And that matters?" she scoffs.
"It matters because you don’t know him either."
Her expression hardens. That hits a nerve.
"That’s funny," she says, voice like steel wrapped in silk. "Because I could say the same thing about you."
That’s when I decide I’ve had enough.
"Lia," I say smoothly, drawing her attention, letting the name roll off my tongue like it belongs to me.
She looks at me immediately. Soft, unguarded.
Dominic stiffens. I watch it happen. The moment he realizes I called her that. The moment he realizes she let me. The moment he realizes I have something he lost.
Dominic’s eyes snap to mine, rage igniting behind them.
"Don’t call her that," he grits out.
I tilt my head, amused. "Why not? It suits her."
"Stay out of this," he snaps.
"Oh, Dominic," I sigh, mocking pity dripping from every syllable. "You seem to have forgotten something important. You don’t get to dictate who Ophelia stands beside anymore."
Ophelia glances at me, her lips twitching in amusement. Dominic looks ready to kill me. And I’d love to let him try.
But before he can, Melanie calls for him.
"Dominic," her voice rings out, smooth, impatient, practiced. "Come on. We need couples shots."
Ophelia exhales sharply, shaking her head. She is done.
"Your wife, remember her?" she says, gesturing toward where Melanie waits, already smiling for the cameras. "She’s calling."
Dominic hesitates. Too long. Ophelia doesn’t.
"Oh, and Dominic?" she says, her voice calm but cutting like glass. He looks at her. That was his first mistake.
"You left me. I’m moving on." Her expression doesn’t waver. "Stay the fuck out of it." She doesn’t wait for a response before turning, lifting her chin, and sliding her hand into mine.
"Ready to walk the carpet?" I ask her.
"No," she says. "I never walk the carpet. Usually, I just go in and watch the movie and leave."
"Times have changed, Lia," I say. "We can walk it together, but you are beautiful. And I want to show that off."
"Okay, let’s do this," she says.
We go to the carpet, and I wrap an arm around her, drawing her close. The cameras go crazy, and I hear people calling her name. We take the attention from Melanie and Dominic.
I have to try to keep my composure as they stomp away, their frustration practically vibrating in the air behind them. I could gloat. I should gloat. But right now, I have something more important to focus on.
Ophelia.
We step forward, moving toward the reporters, the flashing cameras, the endless noise of the red carpet. This is where the real game begins.
That’s when I feel it. The nerves roll off her in waves.
I don’t hesitate. I pull her closer. My hand finds the small of her back and I hold her to me. Leaning in, I take my chance and press a slow, deliberate kiss to her temple, letting my lips linger against her skin just long enough that I feel the tension in her shoulders start to ease.
"It’s okay, darling," I murmur, my voice low, smooth, meant only for her. I turn my head slightly, just enough for my breath to ghost against her ear. "I got you."
Geneva Fox is smirking before she even speaks, and I already know what’s coming.
"Ophelia," she starts, "I know you’ve heard the latest buzz."
Ophelia lifts a brow, unimpressed. "You’ll have to be more specific."
"Oh, come on," Geneva presses, tilting her microphone just a little closer. "Ashton Mercer had Dominic and Melanie on his show last week. It was quite the moment."
Ophelia exhales through her nose, but she doesn’t shift, doesn’t flinch. "I’m sure it was."
I grin. Oh, I love this.
Geneva tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. She knows Ophelia is a tough nut to crack.
"Ashton was quite bold, though," she continues, lips curling. "He said—what was it again? Oh, right. Before Melanie, Dominic was actually with you ."
The words hang between them. Geneva’s microphone is poised, ready for the fallout.
Ophelia gives her nothing. Just a slow, measured stare—cool, unreadable.
"That’s not exactly a secret, Geneva," she says calmly. "But I do appreciate Ashton reminding everyone."
Geneva was expecting denial. A flustered backpedal. She didn’t expect ice. She didn’t expect Ophelia .
I decide to make this even more fun.
"You know," I muse, slipping an arm around Ophelia’s waist, pulling her just a little closer. "I quite liked Ashton’s delivery. He really knows how to command a room."
Geneva turns her attention to me, curiosity piqued. "You watched it?"
"Of course," I say smoothly. "I love comedy."
Ophelia lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head.
"So you don’t mind being part of this story?" Geneva asks, watching me carefully.
I tilt my head, pretending to think. "Why would I?"
I glance at Ophelia, running my thumb along the curve of her hip, just enough to make sure Geneva—and everyone else—sees it.
"I know exactly where she stands," I say, voice silky, taunting.
Geneva hums, watching us. "Dominic might have something to say about that."
"Oh, I hope he does," I murmur, smiling. "It’s been far too long since anyone put him in his place."
Ophelia laughs at that, fully and unapologetically.
Geneva’s eyes flicker between us. She knows she’s not getting anything more.
"Well," she says finally, "this is definitely the most interesting story on the carpet tonight."
"I do try," I reply with a smirk.
Geneva shakes her head, amused, intrigued, and maybe a little frustrated. "I’ll be keeping an eye on you both."
"I’d be offended if you didn’t," I say easily.
She walks away, already setting her sights on her next target.
Ophelia turns to me, exhaling. "You are impossible."
"And yet," I murmur, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, "you’re still here."
She sighs, dramatic, exasperated—but she doesn’t pull away.
All attention shifts again as Dorian Castellano and Harrison Drake step onto the carpet.
I barely flick my gaze toward them.
Dorian, the director—pretentious, chaotic, all disheveled charm and artistic torment. Harrison, the producer—polished, calculating, probably already thinking about how this premiere translates into box office numbers.
They move like they expect the world to bow. And, to be fair, most of it does.
I don’t care. But I do notice when their attention flickers toward us. Interesting. I smirk, brushing my fingers over Ophelia’s back. Let them watch.
I don’t bother turning as the two start making their way toward us. Figures.
Dorian isn’t too bad. Annoying, sure. A little too self-important. But he’s an artist, which means at least half of his arrogance is earned. He makes films that people don’t forget, and he knows it.
Harrison, though? Harrison is worse. The kind of man who smiles just a little too long, stands just a little too close, touches just a little too easily. He plays power games in every room he enters—and in his mind, women are just another piece on the board.
And right now, his eyes are locked on Ophelia.
I already don’t like him.
"Ophelia," Dorian greets smoothly, his voice carrying the effortless charm of someone who expects to be listened to. "You clean up well."
Ophelia tilts her head, unimpressed. "You say that like I’m usually a disaster."
Dorian chuckles, unbothered. "No, darling. Just unseen."
Ophelia’s lips press together. I watch her fight the urge to roll her eyes.
"Dorian, you’re wasting time on pleasantries," Harrison drawls, his gaze dragging over Ophelia in a way that makes my fingers twitch. He steps closer, smiling in a way that shows he thinks he’s charming. He’s not.
"Ophelia Arden," he muses, slow and indulgent, like he’s tasting her name. "You know, I always wondered why you hid behind your sister’s shadow."
Ophelia doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shrink. "I wasn’t hiding," she says flatly. "I was avoiding people like you."
I grin. That’s my girl.
Dorian snorts, amused. Harrison, though—he smirks. "I see you’ve got a sharp tongue," he murmurs, taking another slow step forward. Too close. "I like that."
I move before I even think about it, shifting just slightly, stepping between them, my hand settling low on Ophelia’s waist. Not possessive. Just undeniable.
Harrison’s eyes flick to me, and his smirk falters.
"And you are?" he asks, mildly irritated.
I smile, slow and sharp. "Julian."
His brows lift slightly. "No last name?"
"None that you need."
Harrison looks me over, assessing. I don’t react. I don’t blink. And he doesn’t like that.
"So, Ophelia," he continues, clearly deciding I’m irrelevant. "Are you here to celebrate your sister? Or steal the spotlight?"
Ophelia finally smiles, slow and razor-sharp. "Funny," she says. "I was just about to ask you the same thing."
Dorian laughs outright, clapping Harrison on the back. "I like her."
I smirk, brushing my fingers along Ophelia’s spine. "You should," I murmur. "She’s unforgettable."
Ophelia tilts her head, eyes steady, lips curving into something that might be a smile. Or a warning.
"Enjoy your night, gentlemen," she says, all sugar and steel.
And just like that, we walk away.
The red carpet is a storm of flashing cameras and murmured conversations, but there’s a shift—a sharp, cutting wave of laughter coming from the barricades.
"Wow. She really showed up with him."
"I guess desperate times call for desperate measures."
"You think she’s trying to make Dominic jealous? Because it’s not working."
"Please. She’s just pissed that Melanie got everything and she got him instead."
The laughter ripples through the group, loud enough to be heard, loud enough to be intentional.
Ophelia stiffens—not noticeably, not enough for the cameras to pick up on, but I feel it. The smallest hitch in her breath, the way her fingers curl into the fabric of her dress before she forces them to relax.
I turn my head slightly. Just enough to look at them.
Five of them, clinging to the barricades like leashed animals let out to bark for the night.
They look exactly how I expected—too much foundation, too much entitlement, too much time spent living through someone else’s success.
"She’s so embarrassing," one of them scoffs. "Like, we get it. Dominic left you. Move on."
"She’s not moving on. She’s acting like she is."
"Right? And we all know why. Melanie said it herself—Ophelia was always a shadow. She doesn’t fit in. She never did."
A smirk.
"I mean, even Ashton Mercer was shocked Dominic was with her first. He couldn’t believe she had him before Melanie."
More laughter.
"And now look at her—desperate for attention, trying to make him jealous. It’s pathetic."
They still don’t see me. They will.
The blonde in the center— the leader, the one who thinks she’s untouchable—keeps going.
"Melanie is the reason Dominic is successful. Ophelia is the reason she’s miserable."
That’s when Ophelia reacts. Not much. Just a tiny, sharp inhale. And that’s all it takes. I turn fully now, slowly, deliberately, letting my gaze drag over them like I’m peeling back their skin.
The blonde notices first. She falters.
"You know," I murmur, voice low and cutting, "I find it fascinating how much time you spend talking about someone you claim to have forgotten."
The laughter stops. Blondie stiffens, blinking rapidly like she’s recalibrating.
I take a step forward. They instinctively shrink back.
"I mean, really," I continue, still soft, still pleasant, still dangerous. "Do you think about her before bed? Whisper her name to each other when the lights go out? I can’t imagine another reason you’d be so obsessed with someone who has never once spared you a thought."
One of the brunettes glares, trying to act brave. "We were just stating facts."
"Oh?" I arch a brow. "And which part of your screeching was factual? The part where you pretended Dominic wouldn’t snap his own spine trying to get another glance at her? The part where you conveniently forgot that Ashton Mercer—the king of media’s bullshit circus—was the one who dragged your queen into the spotlight and reminded the world that Ophelia was there first?"
The brunette’s lips press together. I tilt my head, amused. "Or was it the part where you reduced a woman’s worth to the man she did or didn’t end up with?"
They say nothing.
I take another step forward, just enough that they realize how close I could get if I wanted to. "Here’s the real fact," I say, my voice smooth, patient, wrapping around them like a noose. "You’re nothing more than a mouthpiece for someone else’s words. You repeat Melanie like scripture because it makes you feel important. But tell me—does she even know you exist?"
The blonde flushes red. She does now. They all do.
"So," I say, suddenly cheerful, smiling wider, sharper, "why don’t you do something useful and run along before I really start having fun?"
The others flee. She stays. The blonde squares her shoulders, lifting her chin just enough to pretend she isn’t trembling, as if sheer will alone will protect her. She wants to prove something—to herself, to me, to the cameras that might still be lingering. But she doesn’t realize she’s already lost.
"Not scared of you," she mutters, the words barely above a breath, like saying them out loud will make them true.
I let a slow, amused smile spread across my lips, studying her with the kind of patience that makes lesser creatures crumble. She’s not special. Just another person who thinks they can spit venom without ever feeling its sting.
"Let’s fix that."
The shift is imperceptible to the crowd, but I feel it hum through the air, wrapping around her like an unseen current, pulling her under. Her breath catches, pupils dilating as the world tilts. She takes a step back, another—confusion flickering across her face before panic sinks in.
I watch as the vision takes hold.
She tries to move, to speak, but she can’t. Her voice is stolen, her body locked in place as the nightmare unspools inside her mind. It’s different for everyone, uniquely crafted from the deepest fears they try to bury. And her fear? It is so very simple.
She is nothing.
The world moves on without her.
People walk past without seeing her, their gazes sliding over where she should be. She screams, but no one turns. She reaches for someone, anyone, but her fingers slip through them like smoke. The noise of the world dims, fading into a quiet that stretches endlessly, a silence that confirms what she has always feared—she doesn’t matter.
She is a shadow in the background of someone else’s life, a ghost before she has even died, screaming into the void, drowning in irrelevance.
A strangled noise rips from her throat as reality bleeds back in. She stumbles, gasping, her hands flying to her chest as if she can force air into her lungs, as if she can shake the feeling of emptiness that will haunt her for far longer than this moment.
She looks at me, eyes wild, face pale, horror etched into every inch of her expression.
"What’s wrong?" I murmur, my voice velvet-smooth, mocking in its gentleness. "Not as fun when you’re the one being forgotten, is it?"
She stares, unable to form words, the bravado she wore moments ago shattered beyond repair.
I take a slow step forward, and she flinches, breath hitching like she expects me to pull her under again.
"If you say her name again," I continue, watching her closely, "I’ll make sure you feel that every time you close your eyes."
Her lips part, but no sound escapes.
I release her completely.
Her knees buckle, and she catches herself on the pavement, nails scraping against the ground, body trembling as she gasps like she’s just surfaced from drowning.
Crouching down, I tilt my head, letting the silence stretch between us, letting her sit in the terror still clinging to her bones. She knows now. She knows exactly what I am.
"Run along," I murmur, my voice softer now, but no less dangerous. "Before I decide you’re worth my full attention."
She doesn’t hesitate. She stumbles to her feet, nearly tripping over herself as she turns and flees, disappearing into the crowd.
I don’t watch her go. I already know—she won’t open her mouth again.
The world around us keeps moving—the bright flashes of cameras, the low murmur of conversations, the hum of a night too loud to be real—but Ophelia is focused, turning over what just happened, the weight of it settling into her thoughts.
I feel it before she even speaks, the way her fingers twitch at her side, the way her breath comes slow and measured, like she’s deciding whether she wants to know the answer or if she already does.
Finally, she asks, voice even, deliberate. "What was that?"
I glance at her, my smirk sharp, intrigued by the lack of fear in her tone. "Which part?" I tease, though we both know what she means.
She exhales, shaking her head, not quite an eye roll, but close. "Julian."
I chuckle, tipping my face down to look at her, studying her. “It’s a gift, really. I can make people see their worst nightmare. Not illusions. Not tricks. Real fear. The kind that sits in their bones long after I’ve let them go."
She takes that in, lips pressing together, but she doesn’t recoil. Instead, she tilts her chin slightly, looking up at me, her gaze clear, searching.
"And you just—decide what it is?"
"No," I murmur, watching her carefully. "They decide. I just let them drown in it."
She nods slowly, absorbing that, her fingers tapping lightly against her dress like she’s testing the weight of my words.
She should be horrified. She should be unsettled.
Instead, she holds my gaze, blue eyes flickering with something unreadable before she exhales, her voice steady. "That’s terrifying."
I grin, slow and easy, the kind that makes people uncomfortable, but she’s still looking at me like she’s trying to figure something out.
"And you?" I murmur, my fingers brushing lightly against her waist, just enough to feel her skin beneath the fabric. "Do you have something to fear, Ophelia?"
Without looking away, without hesitation, she says, “I’ve already lived my biggest fears, Julian.”
I still.
"Being abandoned. Losing my ability to show emotion. My painting." She inhales, slow, like the weight of those words alone could crush her if she let them. "I’m living it."
I don’t breathe. Because it’s not a dramatic confession. Not a plea for sympathy. She’s just… saying it. Like it’s a fact. Like it’s a truth she carries, something so ingrained into her that it doesn’t even feel like something worth breaking over anymore.
That’s worse than fear. It settles into my chest like something sharp. This has all been fun and games.
Until now.
Because she’s right. She is living her worst fear.
And I am the reason why.
For the first time tonight, I don’t have a clever response. I don’t have a smirk, or a sharp-edged comment, or a teasing quip to pull her out of it.
I just look at her.
And she? She just looks right back.