Chapter Eighteen
Miles
The photoshoot had been dragging on way longer than planned.
I tugged at the uncomfortable collar of my jacket, shifting awkwardly as the photographer shouted adjustments and the crew scrambled to fix the lighting. Julian stood a few feet away, as still and perfect as ever—expression neutral, posture locked, like some living statue.
But something was off.
We finally broke for water—thank God—and I grabbed a bottle, twisting the cap off, sighing like I’d just been rescued from a desert.
That’s when I realized. Julian hadn’t moved. No water. No snack. Not once this whole shoot.
I glanced at him. His jaw was tight, fingers clenched at his sides, but his eyes—those pale, distant eyes—flickered fast toward the snack table, then away. Like he was thinking about it but couldn’t let himself go.
I frowned, grabbing my protein bar out of my bag.
“Hey,” I murmured, stepping toward him. “You want some of this? Or water? You’ve been standing there like a mannequin for hours.”
His eyes snapped to mine for a second—just a flicker of something—but then they shot right past me.
Over my shoulder.
I noticed the change instantly—his face draining, jaw locking, that little tell-tale breath held in tight.
I turned my head.
Victor.
Standing across the room. Watching. Like a vulture.
Julian’s whole body screamed tension, like an animal frozen, waiting for the trap to snap shut.
My stomach knotted hard.
So that’s why.
Victor didn’t even have to say a word. Just standing there, eyes locked like iron bars, was enough.
Julian shook his head quickly. “No,” he muttered, too fast, too quiet. “I’m fine.”
But his hand twitched toward the water before he yanked it back.
I wanted to say something. I wanted to call Victor out, or push the bottle into Julian’s hand anyway—but before I could open my mouth, the photographer clapped loud.
“Vale! Bennett! Back in position. Let’s finish this.”
Julian stepped away instantly, like he’d been cut loose from invisible strings. No glance my way. No word. Just slipping right back into that perfect mask he wore so well.
I stood there, gripping the water bottle, my mouth dry, my thoughts spinning.
Something was very, very wrong.
And I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen it anymore.
Not after this.
Julian moved like liquid glass in front of the camera—sharp lines, perfect angles, every tiny shift deliberate. A flawless machine.
But I knew better now.
I knew what sat behind those perfect cheekbones and those cold, empty eyes.
It made something in my chest twist painfully, watching him pose, his body doing what it was told while the rest of him—his mind, his spirit—seemed lightyears away. Like he wasn’t even in there at all.
God. How could someone look so perfect when they were breaking apart inside?
Finally—mercifully—the photographer yelled, “That’s a wrap!” and the room buzzed to life as the crew started packing up.
Julian didn’t wait.
He was off that set like a shot, weaving fast between people, heading straight for the hall before I could even call his name.
Renee touched my arm. “Miles—wait a second, we need to go over—”
“Not now,” I muttered, brushing past her without another word. I ignored the looks. I didn’t care.
I followed him.
“Julian!” I called softly. “Hey—wait up. Are you okay?”
He stopped a few feet ahead, his back stiff. Slowly, he turned toward me, his face pale, drawn tight like a fraying wire.
“Y-Yeah...” he breathed out. “I’m fine...”
But his voice wavered. Cracked.
And then—his eyelids fluttered.
His eyes rolled back.
“Julian—?”
His body tipped forward like a string cut loose.
“Shit—!”
I lurched forward fast, catching him before he hit the ground. His whole body was limp in my arms, cold sweat slick against his skin. His breath was shallow.
“Julian? Hey—hey, come on—”
Panic flared hard in my chest. People were staring, but I blocked them all out.
I didn’t trust them. I didn’t trust any of them. Not his team. Not Victor’s shadows.
“Dammit—” I grunted, shifting his weight, lifting him carefully into my arms. He was light. Too light. Like he hadn’t eaten properly in days.
Which, God—he probably hadn’t.
I carried him down the hall, ignoring the shocked crew members and wide eyes.
Not his dressing room. No way. Mine. Where no one else could get to him.
I kicked the door open with my foot and laid him gently down on the couch inside.
“Julian... Jesus...” I muttered, brushing the hair from his clammy forehead. “What the hell are they doing to you?”
His face was pale as paper. Dark circles under his eyes. His breathing was too fast, too shallow.
I grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and set it beside him, heart pounding.
I knelt there, watching him, waiting for him to wake up.
Something ugly and furious churned low in my gut.
Victor. His team. They were starving him. Breaking him. Right in front of everyone. And no one was stopping it.
Well.
I wasn’t ‘no one.’
I wasn’t going to pretend anymore.
****
Julian
The world came back in pieces.
A flicker of light behind my eyes. A dull ache in my skull. The faintest sound—breathing, steady but not mine.
I blinked slowly, lashes dragging heavy over my skin as everything sharpened into focus.
And there he was.
Miles.
Crouched in front of me, eyes wide, full of concern like I was something fragile—like I mattered.
My eyebrows furrowed before I could stop them. “What...” My throat felt dry. Weak. “What happened?”
“You fainted,” Miles answered, voice low and careful. “Right outside the hall. Scared the hell out of me. I—I carried you in here. My dressing room. Didn’t trust anyone else.”
I stared at him.
His face was so close. Too close. And all I could see—no sharpness, no judgment—was worry. Real worry. For me.
God.
No one had ever looked at me like that before. Not like this. Not when I’m like this.”
Weak. Falling apart. Human.
Not Victor. Not Bradley. Not even Lena when she pitied me. But Miles was sitting there like I was something that needed saving. Like I was worth saving.
I hated that. I hated that it cracked something inside me.
I gulped, sitting up slowly, ignoring the dizziness spiraling behind my eyes.
“I’m fine,” I muttered. “I’m fine, Miles. You didn’t have to...” My gaze dropped to the water bottle sitting next to me. His doing. Of course. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“No,” he said gently. “You didn’t. But someone had to do it.”
I glanced up at him—really looked this time.
He wasn’t smiling.
No stupid sunshine grin.
Just quiet worry and tired eyes. Like he’d been holding his breath this whole time.
I hated that, too.
I curled my fingers into the couch cushions, grounding myself. “I told you I’m fine,” I said, sharper now, like dragging up old armor. “Stop looking at me like that.”
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t back away.
Just sat there.
And for one terrifying second—I wanted him to stay.
I thought he’d let it go.
Most people did when I snapped—when the sharp edge in my voice cut deep enough to warn them away. But not Miles.
Of course not Miles.
He sat there, calm as ever, eyes on me like he could see right through the cracks in my chest.
“I know you’re lying,” he said quietly. “You’re not fine, Julian. And that’s okay.”
Something in me pulled tight—like a wire stretched too far.
I laughed. Bitter. Hollow. Forced.
“Jesus, Miles,” I muttered, standing up so fast the room spun for a breath. My head pounded, vision dimming at the edges. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. “What is this, huh? Therapy hour? You gonna fix me next? Pat me on the head and tell me it’s okay to be broken?”
His brows knit, concern flickering.
“Julian—”
“No,” I cut him off, sharper than I meant to, words slicing through the air. “I don’t get to not be fine. You don’t understand. I can’t afford that. I have to be fine.” My chest squeezed, breath caught in my throat. “I have to be fine. Or I lose everything.”
I lose me.
I shoved a hand through my hair, dragging it back, trying to push down the shaking under my skin.
God, I hated this.
Hated how his voice made something soft stir in the dead space I’d buried so deep. Hated how easy it was for him to pull at it without even trying.
He stood like he wanted to reach for me again, but I flinched back before he could.
“I’m done here,” I said flatly. “We’re leaving. Now.”
And before he could speak again—before his stupid, warm voice could wedge another crack in my carefully built walls—I turned and stalked out of the room. The door clicked shut behind me like the end of a sentence.
I could feel his eyes on my back the whole way down the hall.
But I didn’t look back.
I couldn’t.
Not when the small, broken voice in my head whispered, He cares. Someone actually cares.
I gritted my teeth.
No.
I didn’t have room for that.
I needed to get the hell out of here. Back to the hotel. Back to the familiar cold.
Back to control.
The hotel room door clicked shut behind me, and I didn’t bother looking at Miles. I didn’t have the energy. Not after fainting like some pathetic Victorian damsel in the middle of a goddamn photo shoot.
Straight to the bathroom. I needed space. Distance. Control.
My hands shook as I turned the shower knob, letting the water rush hot and fast. I stood under it, breathing in the steam, forcing my mind to slow down.
Victor’s voice still rang in my ears.
His grip on my wrists.
His eyes when he said, “Keep this up and the world will know who you really are.”
I pressed my forehead to the tile, the heat burning against my skin, trying to boil him off me.
I couldn’t stop the memory of Miles’s face either. The way he looked when I opened my eyes, like I was something worth worrying about. Like I mattered.
No one’s ever looked at me like that before.
I hated how it stayed with me.
When the water ran cold, I shut it off and toweled off fast. Pulled on the hotel robe because I couldn’t be bothered with real clothes. Not tonight.
When I stepped back into the room, I stopped.