REHEARSED SMILES AND FLASHBULBS #2
Elara opened her eyes, looking at him. He wasn't looking at her lips or her dress; he was looking directly into her eyes, offering a profound, grounding focus.
"My music?" she asked, thrown off guard.
"Your new album," Julian said, his thumb slowly tracing the line of her collarbone beneath the oversized blazer.
The touch was agonizingly gentle, meant to simulate affection for the onlookers, but it felt like a brand burning into her skin.
"Marcus said the label was threatening to pull support for the European tour. Is it fixed?"
"The... the pre-sales went up by forty percent after our photos dropped on DeuxMoi yesterday," Elara admitted, the business reality grounding her slightly. "The label backed off. They’re fully funding the tour. We leave in four months."
"Good," Julian nodded, genuinely pleased. "But I didn't ask about the label. I asked about the music. What are you writing right now?"
Nobody asked her that. Not in this city. People asked about her streaming numbers, her wardrobe, her relationship drama. Declan used to complain when she played her acoustic guitar in the apartment, claiming it gave him a headache.
"I... I’m writing about the fallout," Elara whispered, the truth bubbling up through the cracks in her armor.
She leaned into him slightly, the intimacy of the conversation requiring proximity.
"The anger. The realization that you spent three years building a house with someone, only to find out they were actively pouring gasoline on the foundation the entire time."
Julian’s jaw tightened. "He didn't deserve you, Elara. He never did."
"I know that logically," she said, tracing the rim of her wine glass. "But the betrayal... it rewires you. It makes you look at everyone like they’re holding a match."
"I don't have a match, sweetheart," Julian said softly, his voice dropping into a register that vibrated directly against her chest. "I have a fire extinguisher."
A genuine, breathy laugh escaped Elara’s lips. It was a beautiful, raw sound that made several heads turn in the restaurant. The cameras flashing through the front windows captured the exact moment her face lit up, completely radiant and unguarded, while Julian looked at her like she hung the moon.
"You’re ridiculous, Thorne," she smiled, shaking her head.
"I’m serious," Julian smirked, clearly pleased he had made her laugh. "You want to talk about rebuilding foundations? Let's talk about my knee."
Elara’s smile softened into something deeply curious. She shifted, turning her body fully toward him, pulling one leg up onto the booth so her knee pressed against his thigh. She wasn't doing it for the cameras anymore; she was entirely engaged.
"I read about that," she murmured. "Two years ago. A shattered patella and a torn ACL. The sports analysts said your career was over."
"They were wrong," Julian said, a dark, stubborn pride flashing in his eyes.
"But they weren't far off. I spent eight months in a brace. Three hours of agonizing physical therapy a day just to learn how to bend my leg again. I lost my speed. I lost my edge. Management drafted a rookie center because they thought I was done."
"How did you get it back?"
Julian looked at her, his stormy eyes deepening with a secret she couldn't begin to understand. You, he thought. I listened to your album on repeat until I literally bled through my bandages.
"Spite," Julian lied smoothly, though a faint smile touched his lips.
"Pure, unadulterated spite. I refused to let some corporate suit behind a desk tell me that my time on the ice was over. I rebuilt my foundation from the ground up. It’s stronger now. Slower, maybe, but heavier. I don't get knocked down anymore."
Elara stared at him, completely captivated. The vulnerability beneath his massive, brutal exterior was staggering. He wasn't just a jock. He was a survivor.
The waiter returned, completely shattering the intimate bubble they had built. He placed two plates of handmade truffle pasta on the table, poured their drinks, and vanished again.
"Eat," Julian commanded gently, picking up his fork. "You didn't touch your catering at the studio today. You need to keep your strength up if you’re going to keep fighting with me."
Elara picked up her fork, surprisingly ravenous.
The food was incredible, but it was entirely secondary to the electric, thrilling tension humming between them.
They spent the next hour talking. Not about PR strategies or red carpets, but about their childhoods, their fears, and their favorite obscure movies.
For the first time in three years, Elara didn't feel like a commodity. She felt seen.
As the waiter cleared their plates and set down a single, shared plate of tiramisu, Julian’s demeanor shifted. He glanced toward the front windows. The flashes had intensified.
"Paparazzi are getting restless," Julian noted quietly. "Time for the grand finale."
He picked up a small silver spoon, carved out a perfect bite of the espresso-soaked dessert, and held it up.
Elara’s eyes widened. "Julian, no. That is so cliché."
"It’s cliché because it works," Julian countered, his gray eyes locking onto hers with a fierce, challenging intensity. "Open up, sweetheart. The cameras are waiting."
The air between them instantly thickened, heavy with a sudden, suffocating sexual tension. Elara looked at the spoon, and then up at Julian’s mouth. His lips were parted slightly, his gaze dark and completely consuming.
Slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs, Elara leaned forward. She kept her eyes locked on his as she parted her lips, letting him feed her the bite of dessert.
Julian’s hand was perfectly steady, but the muscle in his jaw twitched violently.
As she pulled back, her lips brushing the silver spoon, a dark, feral heat flared in his eyes.
It was a perfectly executed PR stunt, designed to look sweet and domestic.
But the reality of it—the slow, deliberate eye contact, the absolute surrender of the moment—was the most profoundly intimate thing Elara had ever experienced.
"Good girl," Julian murmured, his voice so ragged and low it sent a shockwave of pure electricity straight to her core.
Elara swallowed, her entire body flushed with heat. "We should go."
Julian dropped the spoon, his eyes never leaving hers. He threw a hundred-dollar bill onto the table to cover the tip, standing up and offering her his hand.
The walk back to the car was a blur.