SIGNING ON THE DOTTED LINE #2
"Breathe, sweetheart," he commanded softly, the gravelly rumble of his chest vibrating against her. "Just look at me. Ignore them."
He pressed his hand a little firmer against her lower back, gently pulling her flush against his side.
The sheer heat radiating from his massive body enveloped her.
For the first time in weeks, Elara felt a sudden, profound sense of safety.
The shouting of the paparazzi faded into a dull drone.
All she could focus on was the steady, heavy beat of Julian’s heart against her shoulder and the intoxicating scent of cedar and clean soap.
He guided her toward the open door of the SUV. He didn't shove the photographers, but he moved with an aggressive, protective momentum that forced them to stumble backward out of his way.
"Julian! Are you two dating?" a reporter shouted, shoving a microphone aggressively close to Elara’s face.
Julian’s arm instantly tightened around her. He paused, turning his head to level a look of such cold, absolute lethality at the reporter that the man physically recoiled, dropping the microphone to his side.
Julian didn't say a word. He didn't need to. The message was explicitly clear: Back off.
He gently guided Elara into the cavernous back seat of the SUV, his hand lingering on her hip until she was safely inside. He climbed in after her, his massive frame taking up more than his fair share of the space, and pulled the heavy door shut behind them.
The lock clicked. The roar of the street was instantly severed, replaced by the hushed, AC-cooled silence of the vehicle’s interior.
"Drive, Leo," Julian said, his voice flat.
The SUV pulled smoothly away from the curb, leaving the frantic mob of photographers in the rearview mirror.
In the back seat, the silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating.
Elara was pressed back into the corner of the plush leather seat, her knees pulled tightly together.
The adrenaline crash was hitting her hard.
Her chest was heaving, and despite the cool air conditioning, she felt like she was burning up.
She reached up with shaking hands and pulled her sunglasses off, tossing them onto the seat beside her.
She felt completely exposed.
Julian sat a foot away from her, watching her. He didn't crowd her space. He had deliberately shifted his weight to the opposite side of the bench, giving her room to breathe.
"Are you okay?" he asked. His voice had lost its commanding edge, softening into a quiet, rumbling baritone.
"I'm fine," Elara lied instantly, wrapping her arms around her stomach. She hated how small her voice sounded.
Julian leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. His large hands clasped together between his knees. He looked at her, his stormy gray eyes stripping away the defensive armor she was trying so desperately to maintain.
"You're shaking," Julian observed quietly.
"It's just the adrenaline," Elara snapped defensively, looking out the tinted window at the blurring LA traffic. "I’m not used to being the center of a circus. When I was with Declan, they mostly wanted pictures of him. I was just the accessory holding his coat."
Julian’s jaw tightened at the mention of Declan’s name. A dark, possessive anger flared in his chest, but he ruthlessly tamped it down.
"You aren't an accessory," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a terrifying absolute certainty. "Not anymore."
Elara finally turned her head to look at him.
Up close, in the confined space of the car, his sheer physical presence was overwhelming.
The broad expanse of his chest beneath his bomber jacket, the thick cords of muscle in his neck, the heavy, golden-brown scruff shading his jawline—he was violently masculine.
But it was the intensity in his eyes that terrified her the most.
He looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"You played that perfectly back there," Elara managed to say, desperate to steer the conversation back to the business arrangement. "Sarah will be thrilled. The protective hand on the back, the death glare at the reporter. It was a very convincing performance."
Julian didn't smile. He held her gaze, the air in the car thickening with a sudden, heavy tension.
"It wasn't a performance, Elara," he said softly.
Elara’s breath caught. She stared at him, her heart slamming against her ribs. "What?"
"The contract dictates that we fake a romance," Julian said, his voice a low, gravelly purr that sent a shiver straight down her spine.
"It dictates that we smile for the cameras and hold hands at galas. But I don't need a legally binding document to tell me to protect you from a mob of vultures. I meant what I said in the boardroom. I’m your shield. That part isn't an act."
Elara felt completely unmoored. She had built her defenses specifically for a fake relationship. She was prepared for a transaction. She was entirely unprepared for a man who seemed genuinely, fiercely invested in her well-being.
"Why?" she whispered, the vulnerability slipping out before she could stop it. "You don't know me, Julian. Why do you care?"
Julian looked away for a fraction of a second, staring at his scarred knuckles.
He wanted to tell her. God, he wanted to confess it all right here in the back of this car.
He wanted to tell her about the gala in New York.
He wanted to tell her that her music was the only thing that had gotten him through the grueling, agonizing physical therapy after he shattered his knee last season.
But he couldn't. If he dropped the weight of a two-year obsession on her right now, she would bolt. She was a deeply wounded woman who had just been publicly betrayed by the man she loved. She didn't need Julian’s intense, feral devotion. She needed a friend. She needed stability.
He looked back up at her, schooling his features into a mask of calm, reliable honesty.
"Because I know what it feels like to have the media try to tear you apart piece by piece," Julian said slowly.
It wasn't a lie; it just wasn't the whole truth.
"For the last three years, the press has painted me as a brawling, reckless liability. They take one photo out of context and build an entire, destructive narrative around it. I know how isolating that is. I know how much it hurts."
Elara’s expression softened slightly. The defensive wall around her heart lowered, just a fraction of an inch. "Is that why you punched that guy in Portland? The one they said you threw through a window?"
Julian let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Yeah. He had a waitress pinned against the bar. She was terrified. I told him to let her go. He took a swing at my teammate instead. So, I handled it."
"And the PR team spun it as a drunken bar brawl," Elara guessed, a flicker of genuine empathy in her whiskey-colored eyes.
"Exactly," Julian nodded. "The truth doesn't sell papers. Outrage does. So, when Sarah brought me this contract, I agreed. Not just to save my captaincy, but because I looked at what they were doing to you, and I hated it. We’re in the same boat, Elara. We’re just trying to survive the storm."
Elara stared at him, searching his face for any sign of deception. But all she found was steady, unwavering sincerity. The dark, stormy gray of his eyes was entirely open, offering her a glimpse of the man beneath the terrifying reputation.
For the first time since the scandal broke, the tight, suffocating knot of anxiety in Elara’s chest began to loosen.
"Okay," she breathed softly, leaning her head back against the leather headrest. She didn't realize how exhausted she was until the adrenaline finally faded. "Okay, Julian. I believe you."
Julian felt a heavy, triumphant thrill lock into place in his chest. Trust. It was the first step. It was a tiny, fragile foundation, but it was enough. He would build an empire on it.
"Good," Julian murmured.
The SUV merged onto the 101, the traffic thickening into a dead crawl. They were going to be trapped in this car for at least another forty-five minutes.
Elara closed her eyes, letting the smooth hum of the engine lull her frayed nerves. She was so tired.
Julian watched her as she rested. He watched the way the dark lashes fanned across her porcelain cheeks.
He watched the subtle rise and fall of her chest beneath the ribbed tank top.
He allowed himself, for just a minute, to drop the mask.
He allowed himself to look at her with all the dark, consuming hunger he had been holding back for two years.
He slowly reached across the console. He didn't touch her, but he shifted his large hand so that it rested just inches from hers on the leather seat.
"By the way," Julian said quietly, his voice a low, intimate rumble in the quiet car.
Elara opened one eye, looking at him lazily. "Hmm?"
"For the record," Julian said, a slow, devastatingly handsome smirk finally touching the corners of his mouth. "I prefer my coffee black. No sugar. No expectations."
Elara blinked, momentarily confused, before remembering the title of Chapter 7 in the PR playbook Sarah had handed them—the orchestrated coffee date.
A sudden, genuine laugh escaped her lips. It was a husky, smoky sound that made Julian’s blood run hot.
"Noted, Thorne," Elara smiled, closing her eyes again. "Black coffee. No expectations."
Julian turned his gaze back to the tinted window, the smirk fading into a look of absolute, terrifying determination.
No expectations, he thought.
He was going to exceed every single one she had ever had. The contract was signed. The trap was set. And as Julian Thorne looked at the woman sleeping softly beside him, he knew he was never, ever letting her go.