REHEARSED SMILES AND FLASHBULBS
The Pacific Coast Highway was completely gridlocked, a glittering ribbon of red taillights stretching into the hazy Los Angeles sunset. In the back of the matte black SUV, the silence was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Elara stared blindly out the tinted window, her fingers compulsively twisting the heavy silver ring on her right hand.
They were ten minutes away from Giorgio Baldi, an exclusive Italian restaurant nestled in Santa Monica that served as the unofficial cafeteria for Hollywood’s elite.
It was also, by design, one of the most heavily paparazzi-stacked locations in the city.
"Stop doing that," Julian’s voice broke the quiet, low and smooth like aged whiskey.
Elara blinked, turning her head. Julian was sitting beside her, looking devastatingly immaculate in a tailored charcoal blazer over a crisp, open-collared black shirt. He looked completely at ease, his massive frame taking up the majority of the leather bench.
"Stop doing what?" she asked, her voice defensive.
"Twisting that ring," Julian nodded toward her hands. "You’ve been doing it since we left the hotel. You’re anxious. When you step out of this car, they are going to look for any sign of weakness. They’ll see the tension in your hands before they see the smile on your face."
Elara let out a frustrated breath, dropping her hands into her lap. "I'm sorry if my anxiety is ruining the aesthetic of our fake date, Thorne. I’m just trying to prepare myself. Sarah said there are at least thirty photographers camped outside the valet stand."
"Forty-two, actually," Julian corrected calmly, checking a text on his phone. "Sarah’s scout just updated the count. And Declan’s PR team conveniently tipped off TMZ that we’d be here."
Elara’s stomach bottomed out. "Declan knows we're going here? Why would his team care?"
Julian shifted, angling his body toward her.
The sheer breadth of his shoulders blocked out the streetlights filtering through the window, casting her in his shadow.
"Because Giorgio Baldi was supposedly your spot with him. They want to frame this as you desperately parading your new rebound guy at your old haunts to make him jealous. They want you to look petty."
A hot, stinging flush of anger crept up Elara’s neck.
Declan was relentless. He had already destroyed her trust; now he was trying to systematically dismantle her dignity.
She closed her eyes, fighting the sudden urge to tell Leo to turn the car around and take her back to her empty, quiet penthouse.
Suddenly, she felt a heavy, incredibly warm weight settle over her hands.
Her eyes snapped open. Julian had reached across the console, his massive, scarred hand covering both of hers in her lap. The heat of his skin instantly chased away the icy panic settling in her veins.
"Look at me, Elara," Julian commanded softly.
She lifted her gaze, meeting his turbulent, storm-gray eyes.
"We are not going to let him make you look petty," Julian said, his voice a dark, absolute rumble of authority.
"When the door opens, you are going to take my hand. You are going to lift your chin, and you are going to walk into that restaurant looking like the most untouchable, fiercely loved woman on the planet. I don't care about the cameras. I don't care about Declan's PR team. For the next two hours,
you are mine. Do you understand?"
You are mine.
The words weren't a possessive threat; they were a protective shield. They wrapped around her, heavy and secure, silencing the frantic buzzing in her head. The lines of the contract completely vanished, leaving only the terrifying, intoxicating reality of the man sitting beside her.
Elara swallowed hard, her pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against her collarbone. "Okay."
"Okay," Julian echoed softly. He squeezed her hands once, a firm, grounding pressure, before releasing her. "Leo, pull up to the front. Don't use the VIP alley. We want the main entrance."
The SUV crept forward, turning onto West Channel Road.
Even through the dark tint of the windows, the explosion of flashbulbs was blinding.
It looked like a lightning storm contained entirely on the sidewalk.
The paparazzi were swarming the entrance, shouting and shoving against the velvet ropes managed by two massive security guards.
The car glided to a halt.
"Showtime, sweetheart," Julian murmured.
He didn't wait for the valet. Julian pushed his door open and stepped out into the blinding chaos.
The roar of the photographers was instantaneous, a cacophony of shouting voices and rapid-fire camera shutters.
Julian ignored them completely. He walked around the back of the SUV, his heavy, predatory stride parting the sea of photographers before he even reached the door.
He pulled Elara’s door open, offering his hand.
Elara took a deep breath, pasting on a perfectly aloof, enigmatic smile, and placed her hand in his.
Julian’s fingers closed around hers, warm and solid as stone. He didn't just help her out of the car; he pulled her flush against his side, his arm instantly wrapping around the narrow curve of her waist. He tucked her against his chest, shielding her from the brunt of the flashes.
"Elara! Over here! Is it true you're moving in with Julian?" "Julian, look this way! Are you fighting Declan next?" "Elara, are you wearing that dress to make Declan jealous?!"
Elara wore a slip dress of deep, shimmering emerald silk that clung to every curve, paired with an oversized black blazer that practically swallowed her shoulders—his blazer, actually, an orchestrated wardrobe choice by Sarah to push the 'borrowed from her boyfriend' narrative.
Julian’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered beneath his scruff. He felt Elara stiffen against him at the mention of Declan’s name. Without missing a beat, he dipped his head, pressing his lips to her temple.
"Don't listen to them," he whispered into her hair, his breath sending a shiver straight down her spine. "Just look at me."
Elara turned her face up to his. The cameras went absolutely feral at the movement, capturing the exact moment their eyes locked.
She meant to offer him a rehearsed, camera-ready smile.
But looking at the fierce, unwavering devotion burning in Julian’s gray eyes, the smile that broke across her face was entirely genuine.
It was a soft, breathless smile that made Julian’s heart violently skip a beat.
He guided her through the front doors of the restaurant, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. The moment the heavy oak doors closed, silencing the paparazzi mob on the street, the atmosphere completely shifted.
Giorgio Baldi was bathed in a warm, intimate amber glow. It smelled of rich truffles, garlic, and expensive wine. The dining room was packed, and the moment Julian and Elara walked in, the ambient chatter dropped by a noticeable decibel.
A-list actors, legendary directors, and powerful producers sat at the candlelit tables. Every single one of them was looking at the new couple.
"Table for Thorne," Julian said to the ma?tre d', his voice carrying a calm, commanding ease that demanded respect.
"Right this way, Mr. Thorne," the host nodded respectfully, grabbing two menus.
He led them to a secluded corner booth in the back, offering a panoramic view of the room while keeping their backs protected against the wall. It was the perfect stage. Visible enough to be seen, private enough to fake an intimate conversation.
Julian waited until Elara slid into the curved leather booth before sitting down directly beside her.
He didn't sit across from her. He sat right next to her, their thighs pressed firmly together beneath the white tablecloth.
Elara’s breath hitched at the sudden, overwhelming proximity. "You’re supposed to sit across from me," she whispered, pretending to study her menu.
"If I sit across from you, the telephoto lenses outside the window can't get a clear shot of us together in the same frame," Julian replied smoothly, opening his own menu.
He draped his right arm casually along the back of the booth, his fingers just barely brushing the nape of her neck.
"Plus, it’s much harder to pretend we’re having a deeply intimate conversation if I have to shout over the ambient noise."
Elara knew he was right. It was PR 101. But the heat radiating from his massive body, the intoxicating scent of cedarwood and clean soap, and the phantom brush of his fingertips against her skin were making it impossible to think clearly.
A waiter materialized instantly, pouring sparkling water and taking their drink orders—a bourbon for Julian, a glass of Barolo for Elara.
Once they were alone again, the heavy, suffocating silence returned. They were on display. Every patron in the restaurant was stealing covert glances, evaluating their chemistry.
"We have to talk," Elara murmured, picking up her water glass to give her trembling hands something to do. "We have to look like we’re absorbed in each other."
"I am absorbed in you," Julian stated flatly, his dark eyes tracking the movement of her throat as she swallowed.
Elara choked slightly, lowering the glass. "Julian, stop. Play the game."
"I am playing the game," Julian countered, shifting closer so his mouth was just inches from her ear. It looked to the rest of the room like he was whispering sweet nothings. "The game dictates that I act like a man who is entirely obsessed with you. The only difference is, I don't have to act."
Elara closed her eyes for a brief, agonizing second. "You’re going to ruin this."
"How?"
"By making me forget it’s fake," she admitted, the quiet confession slipping out before she could stop it.
Julian’s arm tightened around the back of the booth. A dark, triumphant thrill spiked in his blood. He turned his head, his nose practically brushing her cheek. "Then forget, Elara. Forget the cameras. Forget Declan. Talk to me. Tell me something real. Tell me about the music."