Chapter Twenty-Three
Julian
The engine’s quiet hum was the only thing keeping me from losing my mind as I sat there, parked just outside the studio. My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than I wanted, knuckles whitening with every second that passed.
Yesterday, I was at home when the article hit. The headline, the photo—the almost kiss snapped by some hungry paparazzi, splattered across the internet with cruel words that cut deeper than I wanted to admit. No calls from Bradley, no texts from Victor. Nothing. Silence that spoke volumes.
They were furious.
I knew that because when the people who control your entire life go silent, it’s worse than any scream. It meant I’d screwed up, and they were ready to punish me.
I didn’t want to go in. Didn’t want to face the storm I knew was waiting inside those doors. But what choice did I have?
Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped out. The air felt colder than it should have. Every step toward the studio felt heavier.
Then—before I could even steady myself—
“Julian!”
Victor’s voice thundered through the lobby, so loud and furious it made everything freeze. The crew stopped mid-conversation. Phones lowered. Eyes locked onto me like I was already guilty.
My stomach dropped into the pit of my chest as he stormed over, eyes blazing.
This was the reckoning I’d been dreading.
Victor’s polished shoes stopped just inches from mine, the scent of his expensive cologne hitting me like a punch to the gut. His face—twisted with fury—loomed closer as he shoved his phone in front of me.
“Care to explain this?”
The screen lit up with that photo. The almost-kiss. Me and Miles, closer than we ever should’ve been under Victor’s rules.
“This trip was for publicity,” he snarled, his voice low but lethal. “Not for whoring around.”
I swallowed hard, throat dry as sand. My pulse roared in my ears.
“I—I wasn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
I squared my shoulders, a flicker of something stupid—pride, anger—burning in my chest. I knew this was a mistake the moment the words left my mouth.
“It was just a photo. You sent me on this trip to look real. That’s what I did.”
His eyes darkened. A terrifying kind of quiet settled over him for a heartbeat. Then—
Crack!
The slap echoed like gunfire in the cavernous studio. Gasps filled the room, the staff frozen mid-motion like statues.
My head snapped to the side, a sharp sting exploding across my cheek. My legs buckled under the force, and before I could stop myself, I hit the floor. Hard.
I tasted copper. My cheek burned, pulsing in time with my racing heart.
God, not here. Not in front of everyone.
I could feel their eyes on me—watching, whispering, judging. The icy floor against my palms. My pride shattering right along with me.
Victor crouched down beside me, close enough that I could feel his breath on my ear. His hand gripped the back of my neck—tight, punishing.
“Get your act together,” he hissed, voice sharp and venomous. “Keep this up, and I swear I’ll ruin you. The world will know who you really are. No one will want you—not the brands, not the magazines, not your pathetic fans.”
I clenched my jaw so hard it ached. A tear slid down my cheek, unwanted and hot, but I didn’t let the rest fall. I wouldn’t.
Victor stood, brushing his tailored jacket like touching me had dirtied him.
“Everyone out!” he barked, his voice cracking through the air like a whip. “The shoot’s canceled! Go home!”
The studio erupted into nervous whispers and hurried movement, people scattering like ants under a magnifying glass.
But me?
I stayed on the floor. Chest tight. Shame suffocating.
I swore I’d never let him do this to me here. Not in public.
And yet here I was.
Broken.
Again.
I pressed my hand to the floor, shoving myself up before anyone could offer help. My legs shook, but I stood—jaw tight, spine straight, as if I wasn’t burning inside.
I felt them all staring. Felt the weight of their pity, their fear, their damn curiosity.
I ignored every single one of them.
I grabbed my bag—shaky fingers curling tight around the strap—and walked out. Fast. My heart thudding hard in my chest. My cheek still stung, hot and swelling. But I didn’t reach for it. I didn’t wince.
I wouldn’t give them that.
The studio door slammed behind me, the cold air outside hitting like a slap of its own. I stalked to my car, teeth clenched, yanking the door open and falling into the driver’s seat.
Home.
I should go home. Rest. Ice my face. Pretend none of this ever happened.
But the thought of walking into that silent, empty house made my stomach twist. The quiet would eat me alive.
No loud pet. No family calling to check in. No laughter. No warmth.
Just four walls. And my thoughts.
I sat there, gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles whitened.
I didn’t even realize I was driving until I was halfway across town.
I knew where I was going. Without thinking. Without reason. The only place that didn’t make me feel alone.
Miles.
His set. His world. His voice, too loud and too bright. His golden retriever smile that didn’t fit this ugly, sharp-edged industry.
I shouldn’t. I had no business showing up there like this. No reason.
But my hands kept turning the wheel. My foot pressed the gas.
I didn’t want to go home.
I wanted to feel safe.
And for some stupid, impossible reason... Miles made me feel that way.
Even if I’d never admit it out loud.