Chapter 11
Serena
Avoiding a man? That’s a skill.
Avoiding Julien Brooks?
That’s a full-time job with no PTO and no benefits—but somehow, I was clocking in like it paid me to stay unbothered.
It had been three days.
Three days since he leaned across my desk with that cologne that had no business being that good. Three days since he looked at me like he knew exactly where my mind went when I wasn’t pretending to hate him. Three days since I told myself enough was enough.
That whatever this was—this crackling tension, this slow dance around danger—needed to die before it turned into a fire I couldn’t put out.
So I got strategic.
Worked from home. Set my Slack to “Do Not Disturb” like my peace depended on it. Skipped lunch meetings and made up a dentist appointment that didn’t exist. I even gave myself a fake root canal on the company calendar just to be safe.
But tonight?
Tonight, I couldn’t hide.
Guilty Pleasures gala was unavoidable, black-tie, high profile clients, champagne on tap, and possible investors. Ms. Brooks was officially handing over the CEO reins to her son, and every heavy-hitter from here to D.C. would be in attendance to clap and smile and pretend they weren’t already plotting their next business move over fancy appetizers.
Julien would be there. In a tailored tux that probably cost more than my first car, standing at the center of the room like he owned it and, technically, he did.
I took one last look in the mirror and adjusted the neckline of my dress, emerald silk that hugged me and silver sandals, neither was the right attire of the weather but damn I look good wearing it so that makes it worth it. I dare anyone to say something about it. Especially Julien.
Let him look.
Let him remember and be tortured by the memory of our night as much as I’ve been.
I’m done playing fair.
With Evelyn Brooks, subtlety was never on the menu.
Of course, she would book a venue with a literal runway to stage a sneak peek of our new spring line. Let the guests sip champagne and pretend they were part of something exclusive—even though every look hitting the runway tonight would be blasted across every screen in America by next week’s commercial drop.
Still, it worked. The room was all chandeliers, soft gold lighting, and floral centerpieces that probably cost more than my first car. A live band played smooth jazz near the stage, and I wasn’t entirely sure if we could afford it, but who was I to ruin the fantasy?
I was halfway through my first cider of the night when Steven slid in beside me, one arm casually draped around my waist like we were filming a scene from a very stylish soap opera.
“He’s getting irritable,” he sing-songed into my ear.
“Who?” I asked, though I already knew. That tone? That look in his eye? Only one man made Steven twitch like that.
“Your father,” he said, confirming my suspicion. “Called the office today looking for you. When I told him you weren’t in, he dropped a few choice words and hung up on me.”
I rolled my eyes and took a slow, dramatic sip of my cider. “Put him on the no-call list.”
“Serena,” he said, hesitating like he was about to enter dangerous territory. “Maybe it wouldn’t kill you to talk to him—”
The look I gave him made him choke on the rest of that sentence.
“Right. No-call list. Got it,” he mumbled, already backing away.
But I caught his arm before he could fully retreat.
“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” I asked, softer now.
“For what? Showing off in front of your man?” he said, arms folded tight across his chest. His lips were pursued in that dramatic way only Steven could pull off. Annoyed, yes, but not pissed. If he were still pissed, he wouldn’t be standing here. Boss or not.
“Julien’s not my man,” I muttered into my glass.
“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, already walking away.
But even after he disappeared into the crowd, my father’s name still echoed in my chest like a warning bell I kept trying to silence. The thing about warning bells is that they don’t stop just because you refuse to hear them.
“Nice dress.”
The voice slid over me like spilled champagne. Smooth, expensive, and everywhere all at once. I turned, and there he was: Julien, leaning against the bar like his tuxedo was personally tailored by temptation itself. That smile of his, my damn kryptonite.
“You look like you just got caught by the boss you’ve been avoiding,” he said, swirling his drink, eyes sharp beneath the charm.
I took a deliberate step back, my heels biting into the floor. “Maybe I just did.”
His gaze flicked past me, scanning the crowd like he already knew exactly what he was looking for. “Here with a date?”
“No,” I scoffed. Where the hell did that—. Right. Steven’s little performance.
Julien’s smirk deepened, slow and dangerous. “So you’re not the walking cliché? Sleeping with the secretary?”
My mouth fell open. “Steven?” The laugh that burst out of me was half shock, half disbelief. “Oh my God. You’re serious.”
He shrugged, casual, but his eyes didn’t move. Stayed locked on mine like they were trying to read between my laughs. “Can’t blame me. He had his hands all over you.”
“Newsflash, Julien… I’m not Steven’s type.”
Julien took a slow sip of his drink, savoring it like he was trying to make me squirm. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low enough to sink under my skin, “you’re everyone’s type.”
That stopped me. Just long enough for the heat to creep up the back of my neck.
The air between us shifted. Slowed. Thick with everything we weren’t saying, and everything we remembered too well.
I tilted my head, letting my eyes drag over him slowly.
“What about you? You here with a date?” I asked it like a joke, but the bite underneath wasn’t even thinly veiled.
Julien’s mouth curved into that cocky, aggravating smile he wore like cologne—bold, expensive, and completely unnecessary.
“Maybe,” he said, like it didn’t matter. Like I wasn’t standing here half-wondering who the hell he might’ve shown up with.
“Maybe?” I raised a brow, keeping my tone cool even as something sharp twisted in my stomach.
He shrugged, easy. The move tugged at his tuxedo in a way that should’ve been illegal.
“Didn’t realize I had to get your permission first.”
“It better not be someone we work with.”
That made him pause. Just slightly. Then he stepped in closer, like he couldn’t help himself.
“Why not?” he asked, his voice a notch lower now, his eyes locked on mine.
“Because it’s messy. And inappropriate.”
His brow lifted, “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Funny…” He leaned in, his mouth dangerously close to my ear. “I read the employee handbook.”
“Of course you did.”
“Turns out, as long as it’s not a direct report, HR doesn’t have much to say.”
My pulse stuttered.
“I like to know exactly where the lines are,” he said, eyes dropping to my mouth, “before I start bending them.”
The air between us got heavy, thick and charged.
I turned away before I could do something reckless. But I knew he was still watching me, probably wearing that smug little smirk that made me want to slap… or kiss it off.
The man is dangerous and some wild part of me was starting to think maybe danger was exactly what I needed.
I could feel him, watching me, studying every line and detail of my face
“You’re jealous.”
I never took my eyes off the runway on the other side of the room that a few people were putting the final touches too. He just kept staring nearly drilling a hole into the side of my face.
His voice was low, thick with satisfaction, like he already knew the answer and just wanted to hear me say it out loud. I took another sip of my cider, letting the glass linger at my lips a moment too long. Not because I needed the drink, but because I needed the distance. A distraction. Something to keep me from closing the space between us.
“That silence sounds like a yes.”
He murmured it low, his breath skimming my ear like a secret too dangerous to say out loud.
I swallowed hard—not just from how close he was, but because he wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly. It was the way he slipped past every wall I’d built, like they were just suggestions. The way he zeroed in on the soft places I kept hidden under ambition and control. Places I didn’t let anyone near.
I opened my mouth to respond, maybe to say something slick to even the score, but the lights dimmed before I could find the words. A hush rolled over the room like a velvet curtain, and the runway lit up in a sharp beam of white.
Julien leaned back just enough to meet my eyes, that smirk back in place like he never lost it. “Saved by the bell,” he said, voice low, smug, and way too pleased with himself.
I exhaled slowly, turning my attention to the stage, but the heat he stirred in me didn’t go anywhere.
God, this man unnerved me.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, voice smooth like it wasn’t already obvious he knew he was throwing me off balance.
“Nothing,” I replied, aiming for indifferent, even as my pulse betrayed me. “Why?”
“You went somewhere just now.” He said repeating my words from the other day.
I turned to him, eyes narrowing, locking onto his like I could will him out of my head.
“Just wondering…”
He raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“Whether it’ll be Seductive Plum or Strawberry Fire that opens the show,” I said coolly, tossing out the names of our spring line like I hadn’t just been mentally unravelling.
Julien’s mouth curved, slow and knowing. “You think about business all the time?”
“I have to,” I said, taking a slow sip of my drink, eyes never leaving his. “Somebody around here has to keep things professional.”
He chuckled, and turned his attention to the runway as we waited for the show to start.
But I could feel that his attention was still on me.
And no matter how composed I looked on the outside… my body was already betraying me.
“Black Sapphire,” he said, casually, like he wasn’t just blowing up my entire sense of composure.
I blinked. “What?”
“That’s the line they’re opening with.” His eyes stayed fixed on the runway, calm and certain.
My brows lifted before I could stop them. “You know the spring line?”
His mouth curved at the edge, a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course I do. I’m not just a pretty face, Serena.”
“Oh?” I went in to take a sip of my cider and felt silly when I realized it was already empty. “Who said anything about pretty?”
That earned me a real smile.
But his gaze shifted back to the runway right when the first model stepped into the light.
She was gorgeous… no getting around it. Skin a rich, deep brown that glowed under the soft lights, smooth and rich like warm cocoa. Her hair flowed past her shoulders in waves that nearly matched her complexion, framing her face like something out of a dream.
She wore the Diamonds Are Forever set, from our Black Sapphire collection. The black lace bra hugged her curves like it was custom-made for her body only. The matching panties, high on the hips, were barely there, held together by delicate straps that looked like they might snap if she breathed too hard. She wore a garter belt that cinched her waist, anchored the whole look with just enough edge to keep it sexy without trying too hard.
She walked like silk sliding across bare skin. Fluid and effortless, each step is a soft reminder that not everyone needs to demand attention to hold it. She didn’t just wear the set, she embodied it. Moved like she’d been born in it.
And just like that, the room quieted, because she had every eye on her.
Including his.
Julien didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just watched her with this quiet intensity that made my chest go tight.
He didn’t see me.
He was watching her.
I wouldn’t say I was jealous. That wasn’t it.
It was more like a flicker of something quiet. A shift I felt deep in my chest that I didn’t have a name for.
Because he wasn’t looking at me.
I smoothed my dress and stood a little straighter. Like maybe if I reminded myself who I was, I wouldn’t care.
With his eyes glued to the model, he murmured, “See you later.”
“Hold on a sec.”
He turned my way slowly, his glass dangling from one hand, the other tucked in his pocket like he hadn’t just unraveled me with a glance. Like my pulse wasn’t screaming stay loud enough for the whole room to hear.
I had no reason to keep him here. No clever words, no excuses—just the raw, stupid want that had been gnawing at me since the moment we met. I’d pushed him away not because of work, but because I didn’t trust myself around him.
He was the slice of cake you had no business eating late at night—the kind you swore you’d only take one bite of, just to savor. But one taste was never enough. And God help me, I was starving.
“Have fun,” I managed.
He watched me for a beat, those dark eyes reading me too easily, like I had a neon sign blinking above my head: YOURS, no questions asked. And when it became clear I wouldn’t or couldn’t say more, he gave me that half-smile. The one that wasn’t even trying to be charming and still managed to undo me anyway.
“Same to you, beautiful.”
And then he turned, walking away like he hadn’t just taken the last word and the air with him.
I stood there for a moment, lips parted, breath shallow, trying to remember what I was supposed to be doing.
???
The second-floor afterparty was already doing the most, and it had barely started.
Velvet ropes. Custom cocktails named after our spring line. A DJ actually taking requests. They turned the space into a whole club. I didn’t plan a single part of this night. Which meant, for once, I got to enjoy it like a guest instead of on the verge of a migraine.
Because if there’s one thing Evelyn Brooks doesn’t do, it’s “casual.” The woman throws a launch party like she’s producing the Oscars. So I stayed out of the way and let everyone else scramble.
I was already planning my exit.
Zamir had texted me an hour ago: Staying at Malik’s. Don’t wait up. Translation: I had the rare gift of a night off. No teenage boy ransacking the fridge like he didn’t eat a full meal two hours ago. Just me, an empty house and eating whatever I wanted without being asked for some.
But of course, my girls weren’t letting me disappear that easily.
Mika and Nia begged for afterparty passes like it was Coachella, then flipped the script and guilt-tripped me into staying. “Just one drink,” they said, all lashes and pouty lips. Plus, Nia had the nerve to threaten to stop cooking for me if I bailed early, knowing damn well her Chicken Alfredo is my love language.
They meant well. They always do. And truthfully, they’ve shown up for every Guilty Pleasures launch like they were on payroll. So, I stayed. Reapplied my gloss, fluffed my hair, and sipped my usual Pepsi, no ice out of a champagne flute. Because if I’m going to be the only sober one in the room, I might as well be extra about it.
The soda in my champagne flute was halfway to my lips when I heard it.
“Serenaaa!”
Drawn out. Loud enough to punch through bass, laughter, and clinking glass. My name, dragged across the air like a warning.
Everything in me stilled.
Not just because of the voice—but because of the shift. The invisible ripple that moved through the room. The way people paused mid-sentence, eyes darting toward the sound, confusion stirring in their expressions. Like something was coming, and no one knew what.
But I knew.
I didn’t have to turn around. My body recognized him before my eyes did. That’s the thing about trauma—it doesn’t knock. It doesn’t ask for permission. It lives in the spine, in the shoulders, in the breath you suddenly forget how to take.
“Serena!”
Closer this time.
I turned slowly, already bracing.
He stumbled into view like a ghost I’d prayed not to see. Shirt wrinkled and clinging to his chest, sweat shining along his temples, eyes glassy and unfocused. Security had one hand on his arm, steadying him as he swayed, still trying to move like a man who had control of anything.
“My daughter runs this whole damn company!” he boomed, waving something in the air that definitely wasn’t an invite. “Y’all really gonna keep a father from seein’ his own flesh and blood?”
My stomach dropped.
I could feel it all happening in slow motion. The crowd quieting, the judgment rippling through the space like a low tide pulling back. A few people whispered. I noticed a few others grabbed their phones.
Mika appeared on my left. Nia on my right. Neither of them said a word, but I felt the shift in them too. The way they squared their shoulders. The way they stood a little taller. Like they could shield me from something they both knew I couldn’t outrun.
“There she is!” my father shouted, breaking past the velvet rope like it wasn’t there. “There’s my girl!”
Every step he took was a stumble. Every word louder than the last. Arms wide like we were about to embrace under a spotlight I never asked for.
And me? I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
He stopped a few feet away, close enough for me to smell the liquor bleeding through whatever cologne he threw on to cover it.
“My baby girl,” he slurred, gesturing to me like I was some kind of trophy. “Built this whole thing with her bare hands. Just like her daddy taught her!”.
His grin was full of pride, lies, and of everything I’d worked so hard to separate myself from.
I said nothing.
Because what was there to say? This wasn’t new. This was just the same tired act, playing out on a bigger stage.
But inside? I was unraveling. Quietly. Quickly.
Because this wasn’t just a drunk man crashing a party. This was my past kicking down the door of the life I’d built. This was my shame with a name, dressed in a too-tight shirt and stolen nostalgia, trying to rewrite a story that had nothing to do with him.
“Serena,” he said again, voice tipping into frustration. “You payin’ attention?”
I was.
Too much.
To the heat in my cheeks. To the silence around us. To the weight of every eye in that room, pressing down on my skin like shame.
And still, I didn’t speak.
Because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stop.
“They not lettin’ me in the party,” he slurred, dragging out every syllable like the truth owed him something. He laughed—loud, sloppy, mean.
I hadn’t seen him in over a year. But of course, this would be the moment he picked to show up. At my event. On my night.
Our night.
I felt my spine straighten, fingers tightening around the stem of my untouched champagne flute. I didn’t drink, but suddenly, I wished I did.
Eyes were on me now. Curious, nosy, waiting-for-the-trainwreck eyes. The kind that made your skin prickle and your shame bloom.
He spotted me and lit up like a spotlight had hit him. “There she is!” he called, voice cracking wide with pride he hadn’t earned. “My baby girl! Built this whole thing from nothin’, just like her old man taught her.”
I stepped forward before the moment could stretch any further. I needed to get him out of there—before he ruined whatever dignity we both had left. I approached quietly, close enough to keep the rest of the room from hearing, close enough to smell the liquor sweating through his pores.
“Dad,” I said, my voice steady but quiet, the way you speak to a child mid-tantrum. “You shouldn’t be here. Go home.”
He grabbed for my hand.
And I flinched.
Not because it hurt—but because it still could.
I pulled back hard, and something flickered across his face. Hurt. Embarrassment. Rage. He staggered for a beat like I’d physically knocked him off balance.
“You get a little money, a little title, and now you think you too good for your own father?” he spat. “Forget who made you?”
“You’re drunk. You need to leave,” I said, voice low and clipped, fighting for calm I didn’t feel.
He leaned in, eyes wild and wet. “Money changed you.”
I looked him dead in the eye. “You would know.”
His mouth opened to respond, but for once, he didn’t have the words.
“What’d you say to me?”
His voice was a growl now—low, tight, bloodshot eyes bulging in their sockets like they might leap from his skull. He reached for me, clumsy and reckless, but I moved too fast, and he slipped right out of security’s grip.
He hit the floor hard.
My father wasn’t a small man, and drunk like this, he was dead weight. The two security guards strained to keep him up, but he squirmed like a child mid-tantrum, limbs flailing as he tried to crawl toward me.
They looked at me—waiting.
And I hated that. Hated that I had to be the one to make the call. That even now, in the middle of this glossy, perfect afterparty with music thumping and camera phones hovering, I was the one being asked to save face.
“Serena, baby—” His words slurred, his voice climbing. “Don’t you walk away from me—”
Then came the slap of his words, loud enough to silence the room:
“You little ungrateful bitch!”
The music kept playing, but everything else stilled—guests, staff, even the DJ paused mid-nod, a needle dragged across the vibe. Every molecule of oxygen vanished from the space between us.
And then—
“What did you just call her?”
The voice came from behind me, calm but lethal. I turned, slowly, and there was Julien.
Julien, who I hadn’t seen since the last model left the runway. Julien, in that black-on-black tux, sleeves rolled up, jaw hard as granite. His eyes weren’t soft anymore. Not warm or amused. They were ice. Unforgiving and locked on my father like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—and was ready to do something about it.
I wasn’t sure if he looked taller, or if the man in front of him had just shrunk. My father was 5’9”, belly heavy with booze and bad decisions. But next to Julien, who stood easily 6’3”, straight-backed and steady, he looked small. Pitiful.
Julien stepped forward, and I swear, the whole room held its breath. Even my girls flanked me in silence now, Mika slipping her hand into mine, grounding me.
“I asked you a question.” Julien crouched to eye level, voice low but clear. “What did you just call her?”
My father blinked, tried to push himself upright, hands planted on the ground like he had any business standing. That gave Julien just enough of an opening to plant his foot squarely on his hand.
I flinched.
The pressure wasn’t subtle.
“I thought I heard you call your daughter a bitch,” Julien said, grabbing the collar of his rumpled shirt, bunching the fabric tight in his fist like it was nothing. “Let me make sure we’re clear.”
The security guards didn’t move. No one did. It was like everyone had decided, unanimously, to let Julien handle it.
Julien twisted his shoe, slow and purposeful, grinding into my father’s hand. My father yelped, the sound high and sharp. But Julien didn’t blink.
“Apologize to your daughter.”
Silence.
“I said apologize.” Another twist. Another groan.
“I—I’m sorry,” my father stammered, voice small.
Julien didn’t move. “Sorry to who?”
“S-Serena.”
Julien’s voice dropped an octave. “Sorry for what?”
“I’m sorry for ruining the party.”
Julien leaned closer, said something I couldn’t hear, something meant only for my father’s ears, and whatever it was drained the fight clean out of him.
“I’ll never show up unannounced again,” my father said quickly, like a student reciting a line under threat of detention.
“And?” Julien’s grip didn’t loosen.
My father’s lips trembled. His eyes darted to mine, like I might rescue him.
I didn’t.
“I’m… I’m a spineless asshole.”
My breath caught. I wasn’t sure if I was going to scream or laugh or cry. Maybe all three.
“Julien,” I said finally, voice quiet but firm.
He stiffened at the sound of my voice, like he’d forgotten anyone else was in the room. He looked at me then, really looked, and just like that, the fire in his eyes simmered.
He let go.
“You can go now,” he said, stepping back.
He just looked tired.
The room was still quiet, but something shifted in the air. Not pity. Not scandal.
Respect.
I didn’t realize my hands were shaking until I reached to tuck a curl behind my ear and missed.
My fingers brushed nothing but air, my body betraying me in a way my pride never would.
I took a step forward. Just one. Toward the chaos that was my father.
Julien’s hand caught me at the waist, his touch firm but gentle, his fingers pressing just enough to make me pause. “Easy.” His voice was a low, velvety rasp that slid over my skin like a secret. The kind of tone that could calm a spooked horse, talk a woman off a ledge, or make her forget why she was standing on one in the first place.
I froze.
Not because he stopped me.
But because for the first time in years, I let someone try.
My father slumped against the wall, cradling his wrist like it was the only thing holding him together. The curses he muttered were slurred, messy and the kind of words that came from a man who’d spent a lifetime blaming the world for his own wreckage.
Julien’s thumb stroked my hip twice, a silent reassurance that somehow steadied my breath. Then, without a word, he shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders, surrounding me in the warmth of his body, the scent of his cologne dark, woodsy, and undeniably him.
“Let security handle it.”
I watched as two men in uniforms helped my father up, his legs unsteady. He shook them off at the last second, because even half-drunk and humiliated, he had to have the final say.
“He’s still my father.” The words were more of a reminder to myself than to Julien. I was exhausted from defending him. Been doing that most my life.
Julien’s fingers pressed more firmly where he held me. “I know,” he said softly. “But maybe now he’ll remember that too.”
The music swelled around us, the party moving on as if nothing had happened.
But everything had.
Because at that moment, with Julien’s jacket wrapped around me and his hand holding mine, I realized something dangerous…
I didn’t want to be the strong one anymore.
Mika cleared her throat, a quiet reminder that she and Nia were still there…still holding space for me when I probably looked as unraveled as I felt. The entire situation had crashed over me like a rogue wave.
Julien’s voice cut through the static, softer now and stripped bare. “You good?” A low hum that curled around me, warm and insistent, making it damn near impossible to pretend I didn’t feel it everywhere.
I nodded, my fingers clutching his jacket lapels like armor. “I’m just worried you broke his hand.”
His mouth curved, not into a smile, but something deeper. Something that looked like understanding. “Only thing broken is his pride,” he said. “But we could always arrange to change that.”
The words landed between us like a vow. There was a beat of silence between us, with us just staring at one another.
His eyes dipped then, dark and intentional, lingering like he had every right to memorize the way the emerald silk clung to my curves. Like I was something rare. Something worth studying.
“Did I mention I love that dress?” The sudden shift in subject threw me, his voice all rough velvet and wicked intent.
I arched a brow, struggling to recalibrate. “That would be the second time tonight.”
Julien grinned, that damn dimple appearing like a punctuation mark to his mischief. “I meant it both times.”
His gaze now on the empty flute in my hand, lingering on my fingers before dragging back up to my face. Slower now. Hotter. “Can I get you another cider? Or—”
“It was Pepsi,” I corrected, my voice drier than the champagne everyone else was drinking.
He blinked, then huffed a laugh through his nose, that amused crinkle appearing at the corner of his eyes. “Right.” His thumb brushed the stem of my glass as he took it, our fingers charged in a touch that sparked like static. “Pepsi it is.”
But he didn’t move. And God help me, I didn’t want him to step away. But then he did. Striding toward the bar, as if he hadn’t just rewritten every rule I thought existed between us. I stood there drowning in his jacket and his contradictions…the man who’d threatened violence in one breath and ordered Pepsi in a flute the next.
“Girl, that’s him?!” Nia whisper-yelled, slicing through the haze Julien had wrapped around me.
Mika snorted, not even pretending to lower her voice. “The way he was looking at her. Oh, that’s him.” She raked an appreciative glance over Julien’s retreating form. “What was your reason again for not climbing that man like a tree? Because at this point, you’re doing yourself a disservice.”
“I have to agree,” Nia added.
My head whipped toward her so fast my curls bounced. “Excuse you?”
“Did you two forget he’s my boss?” I hissed.
Mika arched a brow. “Oh, suddenly now you remember he’s your boss?” She tapped her chin mock-thoughtfully. “Funny, because five seconds ago, you were looking at him like he was your last meal.”
“And that’s the first time I’ve even heard you refer to him as your boss,” Nia chimed in, grinning like the traitor she was. “Last week, you were too busy plotting to get him fired. ”
“Things get complicated once you mix work and play,” I said, more to reminded myself than them.
Mika smirked, swirling her martini. “Then keep the play out of work.”
I opened my mouth then snapped it shut. Because damn them both, they weren’t entirely wrong.
“I’ve never seen that side of him before,” I murmured, watching Julien at the bar as he ordered my drink with that effortless command. “He definitely keeps parts of himself hidden.” The observation slipped out before I could stop it, a quiet confession tossed like a pebble into uncertain waters.
Nia’s knowing smile softened as she bumped her shoulder against mine. “Don’t we all have sides to our coin? Only difference is…” She nodded toward Julien, where the lights caught the sharp angle of his jaw as he glanced back at us. “He’s not hiding his from you.”
Mika hummed in agreement, swirling her cocktail. “And when a man like that starts showing you his true currency? You’re already his.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but the words dissolved when his eyes met mine across the crowded room, dark with unspoken promises.
“Take that fine man home or I might have to.” Mika said.
“Try me,” I snapped, turning to face Mika fully, my voice dropping to a velvet threat. “Take one step in his direction, and I’ll have you flat on your back in front of this entire party, and not in the fun way.”
Mika’s grin only widened, her eyes glittering with mischief as she raised her hands in mock surrender. “Ohhh, so now she’s territorial.” She shot Nia a knowing look. “Took you long enough to admit it.”
Mika sipped her drink, shaking her head. “Baby girl over here had us convinced she wanted him fired, not—”
“Don’t.” I pointed a warning finger between them, though my lips threatened to betray me with a smile. “I’m still weighing my options.”
“Mhm.” Nia arched a brow, her gaze sliding past me to where Julien stood at the bar. “Looks like the only thing being weighed is how fast you can get out of that dress tonight.”
Julien returned, cutting through the crowd with that effortless confidence that made heads turn. He handed Mika her martini first: dry, with two olives, exactly how she liked it before passing Nia the unopened water bottle he’d tucked under his arm.
“Designated driver?” he asked, and Nia’s eyebrows shot up, impressed he’d noticed she hadn’t touched a drink all night.
Then he turned to me, holding out a flute filled with something lightly tinted red, a cherry resting at the bottom.
“What happened to Pepsi or cider?” I asked, taking the glass.
His grin was a slow, wicked thing. “Thought you might like a taste of better memories.”
I took a sip. Sweet, fizzy, and unmistakable. A Shirley Temple. The same drink we’d shared that night at the hotel bar, when neither of us wanted the evening to end.
That damn dimple made another appearance. “Last-minute change of heart.”
He didn’t have a drink for himself, I noticed. Like he’d only come back for us.
For me.
The girls thought they were slick, tip toeing backward with innocent smiles. Giving us space without saying a word.
Julien didn’t waste the opportunity.
He stepped in closer. So close, I could feel the heat of him radiating through the silk of my dress.
“I’m surprised you came to the after-party,” I said, my eyes flicking up to meet his.
Julien didn’t flinch. “You’re here.”
His gaze lingered long enough to feel like a touch before drifting toward the crowd.
“I’m just trying to enjoy the night. Like everybody else.” He said eyes still on the crowd, scanning it.
I took a slow sip from my glass, feigning nonchalance. “Looking to enjoy it with one of those models?”
I tilted my chin toward the bar, where a few of them were laughed too loudly and posing eyes devouring him.
He didn’t deny it.
Just shrugged, smooth and unapologetic. “Maybe.”
That one word hit harder than I expected. Not because I cared.
At least, I told myself I didn’t.
But something in me… shifted.
His eyes returned to mine, quieter now. “You good?”
I nodded, but my voice caught in my throat before I could speak.
Because suddenly, I wasn’t sure.
I nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah. The night’s not lost.”
He gave a low chuckle. “You stayed cool and still wearing a smile. That’s admirable.”
“Trust me,” I said, voice low, “all I wanted to do was scream in his face and drag him out by his collar.”
Julien smiled wide at that, but there was something behind it. A flash of understanding. Something familiar.
“That would’ve been a sight,” he said, stepping back just enough for air to slide between us. “But don’t let him take any more from you.”
Julien’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise like it was meant for me and me alone.
“That’s what miserable people do. They find your light and try to dim it just so they don’t feel so damn small.”
I didn’t look at him.
Because if I did, he’d see the way his words cracked something open.
There was a pause. Not long. Only long enough to make me feel like something else was coming.
He shifted a little closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to feel him. His presence wasn’t loud. But somehow, it took up all the air between us.
“Serena…”
His voice dipped, low and careful. Almost uncertain.
“You don’t always have to carry it all alone.”
That part hit different.
It wasn’t flirtation.
It wasn’t some slick line wrapped in charm.
It was care.
Offered the way he does most things…without pressure, without noise. Just there.
Like he’d been holding it in the palm of his hand, waiting for me to take it.
And I didn’t.
Not because I didn’t want to.
God, I wanted to.
But want and readiness don’t always arrive at the same time.
So, I stood there.
Letting the moment stretch too long. Letting my silence say what I couldn’t.
He watched me patiently. He gave me space to meet him in it.
And I stayed still.
And sometimes, stillness is its own answer.
His eyes held mine for a breath longer than they should have.
Then he nodded. A soft, almost imperceptible motion. The kind that means I get it. I won’t ask again.
Then…
he turned.
Didn’t make a scene.
Just walked away the way only he could, unbothered on the outside, like he hadn’t just handed me something breakable and watched me drop it.
Women smiled like they’d been waiting for him to look their way.
He sat at a table across the room, arm slung low over the back of his chair, the picture of ease.
Laughing at something the man beside him said.
Not once did he look my way.
Didn’t steal a glance.
Didn’t check to see if I was watching him—though I was.
Of course I was.
His white dress shirt clung to him in all the places it shouldn’t have.
It stretched just slightly across his chest and shoulders, pulling at the seams every time he leaned back and laughed.
Effortless strength, cloaked in tailored restraint.
The fabric loosened over his stomach, teasing the lines I knew were there…defined, and disciplined.
My mind drifted before I could stop it.
Sweatpants hanging low on his hips, chest bare and slick with effort. Muscles flexing as he moved, the slow, rhythm of a man who knew his own power and didn’t need to prove it.
I should’ve looked away.
But I didn’t.
Because there was something about the way he refused to see me, how he didn’t even flinch in my direction. That made me burn hotter than if he had.
And I just stood there.
Holding the weight of all the things I didn’t say.
At the bottom of my drink, a single cherry floated like a warning.
Sweet, overripe, and sinking.
Nia appeared beside me like she’d been summoned by my silence. Her voice brushed my ear.
“What happened?”
I swallowed hard.
“I think,” I said quietly, “I let the taste of me get sour in his mouth.”
Nia didn’t said a word.
I raised the glass, drank the rest, then slowly bit into the cherry between my teeth.
Even sweetness has a shelf life.
Julien had wanted this. Wanted me.
And I’d kept the door cracked just enough for him to see the light, but never wide enough to step through.
Now, with the weight of his jacket still wrapped around my shoulders and the ghost of his warmth lingering on my skin, I felt it—that shift. Subtle. Final.
Not rejection. Just… resignation.
He’d stopped waiting.
And now that I was finally ready, it felt like I was reaching for something that had already moved on.
“I think…” I started, voice softer than I meant for it to be, “I let the taste of me go bitter in his mouth.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Mika, always the bold one, leaned in close. Her voice was honey-laced steel. “Well… remind him how sweet you can taste.”
Her words landed like an invitation.
I wanted to stop hiding behind work, pride, and fear and finally step toward what I wanted with both hands open.
And God, I wanted him.
“You better go get your man before somebody else does,” Mika murmured, not looking up as she sipped from her glass.
Nia let out a low hum, amused. “Yeah… because I might.”
I gave her a slow side-eye and tapped her arm. Enough to get the idea across, but not to really hurt. She smirked. Message received.
I turned back toward him.
He was still at the table across the room, the seats around him were no longer full. The energy had shifted. People cleared space when a man like that leaned back and made it look like a throne.
Then I saw her.
The model from earlier, still wearing our Diamonds Are Forever piece like it had been stitched onto her.
She moved like she knew how to be seen.
And right now, she was headed straight for the open seat beside him.
Her gaze slid over to me as she passed.
Deliberate. Measured. The kind of look women give when they’re used to winning.
I didn’t look away. Just arched a brow and finished my drink.
Let her have her walk.
Let her try.
Because I wasn’t chasing. But I wasn’t folding, either.
I stood, adjusted the hem of my dress, and took my time crossing the room.
Not to compete.
To remind everyone, including him, who the hell I was.
He extended his hand to shake hers.
I didn’t think…I moved. My manicured fingers intercepted his mid-sip, brushing against his knuckles in a whisper of a touch that sent a shockwave straight to the sole of my heels. When our skin connected, Julien’s gaze snapped to mine like I’d yanked an invisible leash.
When a man looked at you like that? That’s not eye contact. It’s a silent confession and a dare.
Beside him, the model’s glossy smile collapsed in real time. I didn’t even blink in her direction; my eyes were only for him.
His lips parted, but I knew that look. Knew the way silence could say everything we’d both tried to forget. The space between us pulled tight, full of memory and heat.
The drink was cold. It was sweet in that artificial way…bright, syrupy, and forgettable. Nothing like him. He was aged heat and slow burn. The kind of taste that stayed with you.
He didn’t stop me.
Didn’t reach for the glass. Didn’t say a word.
He just watched, like a man remembering too much all at once.
His face barely shifted, but I caught it—the flicker. That pause in his eyes. The kind of hesitation that only shows up when control slips for a second and something real slips through.
I stepped in, not whispering. Not hiding a thing.
“I’ve got something sweeter waiting,” I said, keeping my voice smooth and steady, “if you’re still thirsty for another taste.”
A pause. One breath. Two.
His throat bobbed. His gaze didn’t move.
And then, he smiled.
Not for the crowd. Not for her.
For me.