Chapter Ten
Miles
I was in Florence. Freaking Florence, Italy.
A place I’d only ever seen in movies or in those coffee table travel books my mom collected like souvenirs from places we’d never been.
And now I was here.
For work.
For my first real break.
And I was sharing a room—with Julian Vale.
I pressed my forehead against the cool window of the car, watching as the old, winding streets blurred past in soft gold light. The buildings were gorgeous. Ancient. Like the city itself was holding its breath, frozen in time.
I couldn’t decide how I felt.
Excited? Absolutely. This was huge—working with Lumeo, wearing clothes worth more than my rent, building buzz for my new film before it even hit theaters.
Terrified? Uh, yeah. Because Julian Vale was sitting in this car like a statue carved from marble, perfect and cold and unreadable.
And we were sharing a room.
A weird, jittery feeling sat heavy in my stomach. Like butterflies, but with knives.
I stole a glance at him.
Headphones back on. Hood up. Eyes closed like he’d rather be anywhere but here. The model version of “do not disturb.”
Great. Awesome. No pressure.
I sighed and flopped back against the seat, forcing myself to look out the window again.
You can do this, Miles. Fake it ‘til you make it. Smile like you belong here. Maybe one day you actually will.
The car finally slowed, pulling up to the curb in front of a sleek glass hotel that looked like it had been plucked out of a dream. The doorman in a crisp navy uniform opened the door with a polite nod, and the warm scent of espresso and leather drifted out to meet us.
“Welcome to Hotel Firenze,” the driver said in thickly accented English.
Renee twisted in her seat to beam at me. “Here we are, kiddo. Your home for the next week.”
Home. Right.
I grabbed my bag, palms damp with nerves, and stepped out into the cobblestone street. The sky was soft blue. The air smelled like roasted coffee beans and old stone.
Julian moved past me without a word, dragging his suitcase like this was all routine. Like Florence meant nothing.
But to me? It meant everything.
And the weirdest part? I wasn’t sure if I was more nervous about the photo shoots—or the fact that I’d be sleeping ten feet away from Julian freaking Vale.
Renee handed me a slim key card as we stood just inside the lobby. “Room 702,” she said, winking. “Top floor. Gorgeous view. Two beds, no murder.”
I grinned. “Perfect. Just what I asked for.”
Julian took his card wordlessly from Bradley, eyes flicking over the number without a hint of interest.
We followed the luggage cart to the elevator, the four of us crammed inside the sleek glass box as it hummed quietly up toward the seventh floor.
The city stretched below us through the glass wall—red rooftops, bell towers, soft evening light—but Julian stared straight ahead, jaw tight, headphones back around his neck.
The silence stretched.
I cleared my throat.
“So... first time in Florence?” I asked, trying for casualness.
Nothing. Not even a glance.
Renee nudged me gently with her elbow, smirking like she knew exactly how this would go.
The elevator dinged. Seventh floor.
We stepped out into a quiet hallway lined with tall windows and dark wood doors. Julian moved fast, key card already out, his suitcase wheeling behind him with soft clicks on the marble floor.
He shoved open the door to 702 without ceremony. I followed, bag slung over my shoulder, glancing around.
The suite was gorgeous. Two massive beds. Big balcony overlooking the river. Heavy curtains. Expensive everything.
“Wow,” I breathed. “This is—”
Julian spun to face me, sharp and fast like a blade unsheathed.
“Here’s the deal, Bennett.” His voice was low.
Dangerous. “I don’t care what your agent told you.
I don’t care how this looks to the press.
You stay on your side of the room. You stay quiet when I’m trying to sleep.
No late-night phone calls. No snoring. No weird habits.
I don’t do... chatter.” His eyes narrowed. “And don’t touch my stuff. Ever.”
I blinked, caught between surprise and an overwhelming urge to laugh.
“Wow. You sound like my old camp counselor,” I said before I could stop myself. “He also had a thing about people touching his snacks.”
Julian just stared at me. Blank. Unamused.
I smiled anyway. “Got it. No weird habits. No snoring. Stay on my side.” I held up my hands. “I’m housebroken, I swear.”
His jaw ticked, but he didn’t answer. Just turned away, dragging his suitcase to the bed furthest from the window.
I glanced at the balcony doors. The city lights were starting to glow against the twilight sky. Florence, beautiful and perfect and waiting.
I shoved my bag onto the other bed and peeked at him.
“You know,” I said, grinning, “this might not be that bad. I don’t bite.”
His sigh was long and slow.
“God help me,” he muttered, shaking his head as he yanked open his suitcase. “It’s going to be a long week.”
Julian moved around the room like he was setting up camp in enemy territory—yanking open drawers, unpacking things with sharp, efficient movements.
I was halfway to asking him if he wanted to check out the view when his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He froze.
Just for a second—but it was enough.
Without a word, he snatched it up, turned away toward the window, and answered in a low voice.
Even from across the room, I could hear the voice on the other end—sharp, cutting, fast Italian-accented English. It wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t casual. It was the kind of voice that made you instinctively flinch, even if it wasn’t directed at you.
Julian’s shoulders locked tight. His hand gripped the edge of the dresser. He said almost nothing in response—just quiet, clipped little “yes” and “understood” answers.
I sat on my bed, pretending to scroll through my phone, trying not to stare.
But Jesus.
Who the hell was that?
The call ended. Julian lowered the phone slowly, fingers tight around the frame like he might snap it in half. His eyes were distant, jaw tight, like he’d just been caught doing something wrong.
“Everything okay?” I asked gently, keeping my voice light. Non-threatening.
His head turned, eyes narrowing.
“Fine,” he said flatly. “Mind your own business, Bennett.”
I held up my hands. “Hey, just checking. Sounded... intense, that’s all.”
He stared for a second too long—like he was deciding whether to say something else—then shook his head and went back to unpacking.
I watched him in the silence that followed, the weird knot in my chest twisting tighter.
Julian Vale didn’t just have walls. He had steel-reinforced, barbed-wire-fenced ones.
And I’d just seen the tiniest crack.