THE PAPARAZZI PROTOCOL #3
"This violates every rule in the crisis management playbook," Sarah muttered, completely bewildered by the internet’s reaction. "But... It's working. The hashtag #JulianTheShield is trending number two. It’s burying Declan’s audio clip completely."
"Then do your job and capitalize on it," Julian ordered smoothly.
"Send a statement confirming that we will not be answering any further questions regarding her past relationship. We are focusing on the future. And tell management that if they have a problem with how I conduct myself, they can come talk to me."
Sarah nodded slowly, typing furiously. "Okay. Okay, we pivot. This is the new narrative. The fierce, unapologetic protector. It plays well with your athletic image anyway. But you have to go inside now. You need to be seen interacting with the charity donors. Mingle. Be charming.
And for the love of God, no more unscripted speeches."
Sarah turned and speed-walked toward a group of PR assistants near the coat check.
Julian turned back to Elara, offering her his arm.
"Shall we?" he asked, the dark smirk returning to his bruised lips.
Elara slipped her arm through his, moving closer so her side pressed warmly against his. "You enjoyed that entirely too much, Thorne."
"I enjoy protecting what’s mine, sweetheart," Julian murmured as they walked toward the double doors of the grand ballroom. "Now, let’s go drink expensive champagne and pretend we care about whatever the hell it is these people are talking about."
The ballroom was a masterpiece of opulent lighting and high society. A massive chandelier hung over the dance floor, and a ten-piece orchestra was playing a slow, sweeping waltz.
For the next two hours, Elara and Julian executed a flawless performance.
They navigated the room with practiced ease, schmoozing with wealthy donors, team executives, and sponsors.
Julian was charming, witty, and entirely attentive.
He never let go of her. Whether his hand was resting on the small of her back, or his fingers were intertwined with hers beneath the table, the physical connection was constant and unbroken.
It was intoxicating.
By the time the clock struck midnight, the formal portion of the gala began to wind down. The older donors started to leave, the lights dimmed slightly, and the orchestra shifted to a more intimate, melancholy repertoire.
"You look exhausted," Julian observed quietly, leaning down to speak in her ear over the music.
They were standing near a massive marble pillar on the edge of the dance floor, hidden slightly in the shadows.
"I am," Elara admitted, resting her head against his shoulder. The heavy silk of her dress felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. "But we survived."
"We did," Julian agreed, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her flush against him.
He didn't ask. He simply guided her out of the shadows and onto the edge of the dimly lit dance floor.
Elara didn't resist. She slid her arms up his broad chest, resting her hands on his shoulders, while Julian’s hands settled firmly on her hips. They didn't do a formal waltz. They simply swayed together in the heavy, warm shadows, entirely absorbed in each other.
The rest of the room faded away.
"You were incredible tonight," Julian murmured, his face buried in the soft curve of her neck. He was breathing in the scent of her perfume like it was the only oxygen in the room.
"I had a good shield," Elara whispered back.
She tilted her head, her lips brushing lightly against the sharp line of his jaw. The contact sent a jolt of raw electricity through Julian’s massive frame.
His hands tightened on her hips, his thumbs tracing the bare skin of her back. He pulled back just enough to look at her. His stormy gray eyes were completely dark, the restraint he had maintained all night finally fracturing into a million pieces.
"Elara," Julian rasped, his voice a desperate, ragged plea.
He looked at her mouth. The "no kissing" rule was the only thing standing between them, and the foundation was crumbling rapidly.
"Julian," she breathed, her whiskey eyes wide, entirely captivated by the hunger in his face. She leaned in, the distance between their lips closing to a fraction of an inch.
The air between them caught fire.
Suddenly, a loud, sharp burst of static erupted over the PA system.
"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen!" Coach Baxter’s voice boomed over the speakers, breaking the spell entirely. "If I could have the captain and his lovely lady report to the podium for the charity auction presentation!"
Julian froze. He closed his eyes, his head dropping back in a gesture of pure, unadulterated frustration. He let out a harsh, guttural groan.
"I am going to fire Baxter," Julian muttered violently. "I don't care that he's the head coach. I am going to have him fired."
Elara let out a surprised, breathless laugh, burying her flushed face in his chest. Her heart was hammering so fast she felt lightheaded. They had been seconds away from breaking the contract. Seconds away from changing everything.
"Duty calls, Captain," she whispered, stepping back, though her hands lingered on his chest.
Julian looked down at her, the dark promise in his eyes making her knees weak.
"The protocol is over for tonight," Julian said softly, his voice thick with a dark, heavy desire. "But when we get back to my house, Elara... we are going to have a very long conversation about these rules of yours."
He offered his arm. Elara took it, completely terrified and entirely thrilled by the promise.
As they walked toward the podium, bathed in the flashing lights of the remaining photographers, Elara realized that the PR strategy had officially failed. They weren't a fake couple playing a part anymore.
They were standing on the edge of a precipice, and Julian Thorne was absolutely determined to make her jump.