THE PAPARAZZI PROTOCOL #2
Elara took a deep breath, pasted on her most devastating, enigmatic smile, and stepped out of the car.
The moment her stiletto hit the red carpet, the flashes doubled in intensity. The midnight-blue silk of her dress caught the light, shimmering like a night sky.
Julian’s large hand wrapped around hers, warm and impossibly strong.
True to his protocol, he didn't just hold her hand; he pulled her flush against his side.
He wrapped his right arm firmly around her bare waist, his large palm resting heavily against her exposed skin.
The heat of his touch was a grounding anchor in the hurricane.
"Elara! Elara! Look over here!" "Julian! Are you worried about Elara's mental state?!" "Elara, did you really scream at Declan like that in the hotel?! Is the audio real?!"
The questions were vile, invasive, and designed to break her composure.
Elara felt the instinctual urge to flinch, to pull away and defend herself. But Julian’s hand tightened on her waist, a silent, commanding reminder. You look at me.
She turned her head, looking up at Julian.
He was already looking down at her. Amidst the chaos, the screaming reporters, and the blinding lights, Julian’s expression was entirely composed, soft, and devoted.
He offered her a slow, devastatingly handsome smile that didn't just look real—it was real.
He lifted his hand, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, a gesture so profoundly intimate that the paparazzi went into a literal frenzy trying to capture it.
"Just keep walking," Julian murmured, his lips barely moving. "You’re doing perfectly."
They moved down the red carpet at a slow, deliberate pace. Julian’s massive frame shielded her from the most aggressive photographers. He used his body as a physical barrier, ensuring that no lens could get an isolated shot of her face without his broad shoulders or his hand in the frame.
They reached the designated press gauntlet—a line of credentialed reporters holding microphones over the velvet ropes, desperate for a soundbite.
Sarah, looking pale and frantic in her headset, was standing near the entrance doors, gesturing wildly for them to bypass the reporters and head straight inside.
Julian ignored her.
He stopped exactly in the center of the press line, turning his body to face the reporters, keeping Elara tucked securely against his side.
"Julian! Julian Thorne!" A reporter from a notorious gossip network shoved her microphone forward, her eyes wide with predatory excitement.
"Elara's ex-boyfriend released an audio clip today showing her in a severely distressed, screaming state. Given your own violent history on the ice, are you two a toxic match? Are you concerned about her stability?"
Elara’s breath hitched in her throat. The cruelty of the question hit her like a physical blow. She squeezed Julian’s hand, a silent plea for strength.
Julian didn't blink. His expression shifted from the devoted boyfriend to the cold, lethal warlord in a fraction of a second.
He reached out and deliberately placed his large hand over the reporter's microphone, pushing it down slightly. The action was slow, non-violent, but incredibly dominant. It forced the reporter to step back, her mouth clicking shut.
The entire press line fell completely, terrifyingly silent. The shift in atmosphere was instantaneous.
"Let’s get one thing absolutely clear," Julian said. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. His deep, gravelly baritone carried over the quiet carpet with absolute, bone-chilling authority.
He looked directly into the lens of the primary television camera, ignoring the reporter entirely.
"My partner is an incredibly talented, resilient woman who has handled a gross invasion of her privacy with more grace than the coward who illegally recorded her," Julian stated, his voice a lethal, vibrating weapon. "She isn't distressed, and she isn't unstable. She is fiercely protected."
He shifted his stormy gray eyes across the line of reporters, memorizing their faces.
"I don't play games with my personal life," Julian continued, the dark threat in his tone unmistakable.
"And I don't tolerate disrespect toward the people I care about. If any publication wants to push a manufactured narrative to try and tear her down, they can deal directly with me. And I promise you, I won't lose."
He didn't wait for a response. He didn't take another question.
Julian turned his head, looking back down at Elara.
The lethal coldness in his eyes vanished entirely, replaced by a warm, heavy devotion.
He pressed a kiss to her temple, his arm tightening around her waist, and guided her away from the stunned press line, walking her through the massive glass doors of the museum.
The heavy doors clicked shut behind them, instantly severing the noise of the paparazzi.
They were standing in the grand foyer of the museum. The air was cool, smelling of expensive floral arrangements and catered champagne. A string quartet was playing softly in the background.
Elara’s legs felt like water. The adrenaline crash hit her with the force of a freight train. She practically collapsed against Julian’s side, her hands gripping the lapels of his tuxedo to keep herself upright.
"Julian," she gasped, her chest heaving. "Oh my god. What did you just do?"
"I set the record straight," Julian murmured, his arms wrapping entirely around her, pulling her flush against his solid body. He didn't care who was watching in the foyer. "I told you. I’m playing defense."
"You practically threatened the entire entertainment media," Elara laughed, a slightly hysterical, breathless sound. She looked up at him, her whiskey eyes shining with a mixture of profound shock and absolute awe. "Sarah is going to have a stroke."
"Let her," Julian said dismissively, his large hands rubbing soothing, rhythmic circles into the bare skin of her lower back. "I don't care about the optics anymore, Elara. I care about you."
He stepped back slightly, keeping his hands on her waist, his eyes sweeping over her face to assess the damage. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"
"No," Elara whispered, the realization hitting her with a profound, beautiful clarity. "For the first time in three years... I didn't feel afraid. I felt safe."
Julian’s chest expanded with a heavy, shuddering breath. Hearing those words from her lips was a victory sweeter than any championship he had ever won. The feral, protective beast in his chest finally settled, realizing the threat had been neutralized.
"Good," Julian rasped, his eyes dropping to her mouth.
The sexual tension that had been simmering between them since the guest suite finally boiled over. The adrenaline, the triumph of the red carpet, and the intoxicating reality of their physical proximity created an electric current that crackled in the air between them.
"We have to go in," Elara murmured, though she made absolutely no move to step out of his arms. Her thumbs lightly stroked the silk lapels of his jacket, her eyes locked on his lips.
"In a minute," Julian breathed, leaning down until his forehead rested against hers. "Give me a minute, Elara. My heart is beating out of my damn chest."
Elara could feel it. Pressed flush against him, the heavy, frantic thud of his heart reverberated directly against her own. The man who had just stared down a hundred cameras without blinking was trembling slightly in her arms.
It was the ultimate surrender of power. Julian was entirely, helplessly at her mercy.
"Thank you," Elara whispered softly, lifting her hand to trace the line of his bruised jaw. "For fighting for me."
Julian turned his face into her palm, pressing a desperate kiss to the center of her hand. "Always."
"Julian! Elara!"
The sharp, panicked voice of Sarah shattered the intimate bubble.
Julian let out a low, frustrated growl, resting his forehead against Elara’s shoulder for a fraction of a second before stepping back, immediately masking his features in professional calm.
Sarah power-walked across the marble floor of the foyer, her tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. She looked like she was on the verge of a cardiac event.
"Julian Thorne, what in the name of God was that?!" Sarah hissed, keeping her voice low so the passing socialites wouldn't hear. "You went completely off script! You didn't just defend her; you threatened the press pool on live television!"
"I handled the situation, Sarah," Julian said flatly, adjusting his cuffs.
"You poured gasoline on a fire!" Sarah whisper-shouted, tapping frantically on her screen.
"The clip is already going viral. 'Julian Thorne threatens reporters.' Management is going to have my head! The entire point of this PR contract was to make you look soft, to make you look like a family man! Not a mob boss!"
"Check the comments, Sarah," Elara interjected quietly.
Sarah blinked, turning her panicked gaze to Elara. "What?"
"Check the comments under the video," Elara repeated, her voice steady and confident. She didn't need to look at the screen to know what the public was saying. She understood the psychology of her own fan base.
Sarah frowned, swiping down on her tablet to refresh the page of a major entertainment blog that had just posted the clip. Her eyes scanned the text rapidly. The panic on her face slowly morphed into utter, profound confusion.
"They're... they're defending you," Sarah whispered, scrolling down.
"They're tearing the reporter apart for asking the question. They're calling Julian..."
She swallowed hard, looking at the massive hockey player.
"They're calling him the standard. They're saying Declan looks like a boy compared to a man who protects his partner like that."
Julian crossed his arms over his chest, his face an impassive mask of stone. "Imagine that. People respond to honesty."