Chapter 1 #2
Her body hadn’t been like the women James had been used to bringing home. She hadn’t blended into the background like another accessory in a designer cocktail dress. No, Evie Monroe had owned every inch of herself.
She hadn’t been a size two, hadn’t been a size six—she had been every bit of a sixteen, and she had worn it like it had been her crown.
Her hips had curved wide and strong, her waist had pulled in just enough to create that perfect hourglass shape—all soft edges and dangerous lines.
Her thighs had pressed against the fabric when she’d walked, the subtle sway of her stride commanding attention with every step. Her arms, bare and smooth, hadn’t hidden beneath sleeves or shawls like she had anything to prove.
She hadn’t. Her skin, rich and deep like the night at its darkest peaks, had shimmered softly beneath the low glow of the dining room lights.
Not a hint of gloss or glitter—just natural radiance, the kind that hadn’t needed help from a highlighter stick.
It had been the kind of skin that absorbed light and reflected power.
Deep, endless, untouchable. She hadn’t needed to shine like gold when she had already moved like midnight itself.
Her curls had framed her face in wild, intentional chaos—every coil alive with personality. She hadn’t smoothed them back or pinned them down. No, she had let them be. Just like the rest of her. Untamed.
James had watched her walk into that room, had watched every head turn toward her as if she had been an unannounced guest of honor. He had felt it too—that pull, that gravity.
She hadn’t just walked; she had arrived. Not like the sleek, polished women he had dated before. The ones with wafer-thin frames and hollowed-out cheekbones, who had posed for pictures and draped themselves over his arm like props for the press.
No, Evie Monroe hadn’t been a prop. She hadn’t been an accessory.
She had been the whole event.
And that had been the problem.
Because James Reed had known how to handle women who wanted to be seen. He had known how to handle women who had wanted his name, his status, or his wealth. But Evie Monroe?
She hadn’t wanted any of it.
She had sat at that dining table, all curves and confidence, feeding his brother one-liners so sharp that Sam had nearly choked on his wine. She had made his mother laugh so hard she’d dabbed tears from her eyes. And somehow, somehow, she had had the nerve to challenge him.
She got under his skin. That sweet mouth of hers had been infuriating.
Later that night, she’d leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear, her tone drenched in mock pity.
“You’re terrible at improvisation, Reed.”
Her voice had been too soft for anyone else to hear, but it had echoed loud in his mind. For half a second—half a second—he’d forgotten it was all an act.
“Try to keep up, Mr. Billionaire,” she’d added, her words like honey laced with venom. She’d pulled away slowly, eyes locked on him as she took a sip of her wine like she owned the house. Like she owned him.
It hadn’t been just the teasing, though. It had been her presence.
While most people fawned over him—hanging on to his every word, nodding too eagerly, treating him like some untouchable figure of power—Evie Monroe hadn’t done any of that.
And that had irritated him more than anything.
She’d handled him.
By the end of that dinner, his family adored her. His mother had hugged her like she was welcoming a future daughter-in-law. His brother, Sam, had patted him on the back and said, “Don’t screw this one up, James. She’s a keeper.”
But James had been too aware of the act. Too aware of the way Evie had played every single one of them, right down to the tiniest detail. When she’d stood by the door at the end of the night, coat draped over one arm, she’d glanced at him with that same knowing look she’d worn all night.
“Guess I’m a pretty good actress, huh?” she’d said, tilting her head, eyes bright with playful defiance.
“Don’t get cocky,” he’d muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.
But she had only grinned. Grinned like she’d won.
“Don’t worry. I already did.”
And then she’d walked out. No goodbye. No lingering glance. No, "I’ll see you around."
Just gone.
She’d left him standing in the doorway, hands still in his pockets, heart still racing with the aggravation she’d caused. She’s just an actress, James, he’d told himself. You paid her to play a role. And she played it too well.
Two years. Two full years since that night.
He hadn’t seen her. He hadn’t spoken to her. And he’d certainly never thought he’d hear her name again.
Until now.
“Evie Monroe,” Lauren repeated, watching his reaction like she was monitoring a stock market crash. She tilted her phone toward him, her eyes daring him to look away. “Perfect, isn’t she?”
His jaw tightened.
Perfect? No. She was trouble. Trouble with wild curls and sharper instincts than most of his executives. Trouble with a voice like honey and a grin that had stayed in his mind longer than it should have.
“She’s an actress,” he said flatly, trying to sound as indifferent as possible. “She’s not real.”
“Real enough,” Lauren shot back, sliding her phone into her pocket. “She’s charming, sharp, and she already knows how to play the role. Your family loves her, remember?” Her grin sharpened. “Even your brother liked her.”
His gaze snapped to hers, his eyes hardening into storm clouds.
“Don’t,” he warned. His voice was low, cold, and dangerous.
“Oh, I will,” Lauren said, stepping closer, her confidence a blade so sharp it cut through the tension. “You need someone believable, James. Someone smart enough to handle the press, charming enough to convince your family, and bold enough to handle you.”
She tapped her temple with two fingers. “And lucky for you, I just happen to know a woman who’s already done it once.”
Silence stretched between them, tense and heavy.
“She won’t do it,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her.
“Won’t she?” Lauren raised a single brow. “She’s a working actress with no major gigs in the last year and a half. Last I checked, she wasn’t drowning in offers.” Her eyes flashed with triumph. “Call it fate. I already called her.”
His eyes flicked to hers, sharp and dangerous. “You did what?”
Lauren’s smile was pure satisfaction. “I called her,” she repeated, her tone as smooth as silk. “She’s expecting us to make her an offer.”
James ran a hand down his face, letting out a slow, bitter laugh. Of course, she’d already made the call. Lauren didn’t wait for permission—she made moves before anyone even realized there was a game being played.
His eyes turned back to the rain-slicked window, watching the streaks of water slide down the glass. The actress who’d stepped into his life for one night played her part so well it had left a mark, and then walked away like it hadn’t meant a thing.
And now she was back.
His reflection stared back at him in the window, sharp, unforgiving, and still as steel. He rolled his sleeves higher, revealing the cut of his forearms—the calm before the storm.
“Make the offer,” he said at last, his voice quiet but full of command.
Lauren’s grin widened, sharp as glass. She didn’t say, “I told you so,” but she didn’t have to.
“Don’t worry,” she said, turning on her heel with a flip of her hair. “I already did.”
James stayed by the window, his gaze locked on the city lights below. He knew exactly how this was going to go.
Evie Monroe would walk in, wearing that same smug grin she’d worn at Christmas. She’d smile like she’d already won.
And, like last time, she’d get under his skin.
Not this time, he told himself, his eyes narrowing at his reflection. This time, I’ll be ready for you, Evie.
But deep down, he knew better.
No one was ever ready for Evie Monroe.