The Collision
The red carpet outside the Starlight Gala was an absolute circus.
It wasn't just sports media or music journalists; it was the entire Hollywood paparazzi machine, hungry for blood. The flashbulbs were a continuous, blinding strobe light, and the screaming was deafening.
When the matte black SUV pulled up to the curb and Julian stepped out, the crowd went completely feral.
He didn't acknowledge them. He walked around the car, opened Elara’s door, and offered his hand. The moment her crimson stiletto hit the carpet, the flashes doubled in intensity.
Julian didn't do the polite, PR-approved waist hold.
He wrapped his massive arm securely around her waist, pulling her flush against his side, and laced his fingers entirely with hers.
He looked lethal. He used his sheer size to physically shield her from the aggressive lenses, his stormy eyes scanning the crowd with a terrifying, predatory focus.
"Elara! Elara! Did you leak the hotel photos?!" "Julian! Are you worried the Pioneers are going to strip your captaincy?!" "Elara, Declan just walked the carpet! Have you spoken to him?!"
Elara squeezed Julian’s hand. He squeezed back, a firm, grounding anchor. She didn't flinch. She kept her chin high, pasting on a devastatingly confident smile, completely immune to the chaos because the man beside her was an immovable mountain.
They bypassed the press line entirely, ignoring Sarah’s frantic waving near the entrance, and walked directly into the grand ballroom of the Beverly Hilton.
The ballroom was a masterpiece of opulent wealth. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over hundreds of A-list celebrities, athletes, and executives. The air smelled of expensive perfume, orchids, and catered champagne.
The moment they walked in, the ambient chatter in the room dropped by a noticeable decibel.
Heads turned. Whispers erupted. They were the most notorious couple in the room, and their entrance commanded absolute silence.
"Drink?" Julian murmured in her ear, completely unfazed by the stares.
"Please," Elara breathed, her hand resting flat against his chest.
Julian guided her toward a secluded velvet booth near the back of the room, intercepting a waiter to grab two flutes of champagne. They stood together in the shadows, entirely absorbed in each other, while the rest of the room observed them like prey.
"You're shaking," Julian observed quietly, handing her a glass.
"It’s just adrenaline," Elara lied softly, taking a sip. Her eyes were darting around the room, scanning the crowd.
She saw him before Julian did.
Across the room, standing near the VIP bar and holding court with a group of sycophantic producers, was Declan Hayes. He was wearing a velvet tuxedo, his perfectly symmetrical face plastered with that smug, camera-ready smile she had spent three years believing was real.
Elara’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening convulsively around the stem of her champagne flute. The trauma of the leaked audio tape, the gaslighting, the months of being told she was crazy—it all rushed back in a suffocating wave.
Julian felt her stiffness. He followed her line of sight, his stormy eyes locking onto the actor.
The temperature around Julian immediately plummeted. His jaw clenched so tightly a muscle leaped beneath his scruff. He didn't move fast, but his massive body coiled with a dark, kinetic violence.
Declan, sensing the shift in the room, turned his head.
His smug smile faltered for a fraction of a second when he saw Elara in the blood-red dress, looking breathtaking and entirely untouchable. Then, his eyes shifted to the man standing beside her.
Julian Thorne wasn't an actor playing a tough guy on screen. He was two hundred and twenty pounds of scarred, brutalized athlete who fought for a living. And right now, Julian was looking at Declan with a cold, lethal promise that promised absolute destruction.
Declan, fueled by arrogance and a room full of people he thought would protect him, made the worst mistake of his life.
He handed his drink to a producer and began walking across the ballroom, directly toward them.
"Julian," Elara whispered, panic finally bleeding into her voice. She stepped slightly behind him, her instinct to hide battling her instinct to fight.
"Don't move," Julian commanded softly, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. He stepped smoothly in front of her, entirely blocking Elara from Declan’s view. He handed his champagne flute to a passing waiter without looking.
Declan stopped three feet away. Up close, the physical difference between the two men was staggering. Declan was handsome, polished, and soft. Julian was a warlord.
"Elara," Declan said smoothly, trying to look past Julian’s broad shoulders. "You look... well. The scandal hasn't aged you too much."
Julian didn't let Elara answer. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't throw a punch. He simply stepped forward, entirely invading Declan’s personal space.
"You don't get to speak to her," Julian said.
His voice was quiet, dark, and vibrating with absolute menace. It was the voice of a predator realizing the prey had walked willingly into the trap.
Declan scoffed, puffing his chest out in a pathetic display of bravado. "Back off, Thorne. You’re a hired PR shield. Everyone in this room knows Marcus paid you to stand there. She’s my ex. I can talk to her if I want to."
"You leaked an edited tape to humiliate a woman who gave you three years of her life," Julian stated, his stormy eyes locking onto Declan’s with a terrifying, unblinking focus.
"You are a coward, Hayes. You hide behind publicists and gossip blogs because you are too weak to fight your own battles. But you aren't dealing with a publicist right now. You are dealing with me."
Julian stepped another half-inch closer, his massive frame completely dominating the actor.
"So here is exactly how this is going to work," Julian whispered, his voice dropping into a ragged, guttural octave that made the surrounding producers take a nervous step back.
"You are going to turn around. You are going to walk out of this ballroom. And if I ever hear you speak her name again—in an interview, in a tweet, or in a goddamn whisper—I will make sure you never work in this town again.
I will buy the production studio funding your next movie and I will dissolve it. Do you understand me?"
Declan turned pale. The smug arrogance completely evaporated, replaced by genuine, suffocating fear. He looked at Julian’s scarred knuckles, remembering the footage of the enforcer on the ice. He swallowed hard, entirely out of his depth.
"You're crazy," Declan muttered, though his voice shook.
"I'm deeply protective of what belongs to me," Julian corrected, his eyes entirely black. "Walk away, Declan. Before I lose the last thread of patience I have."
Declan didn't say another word. He turned on his heel and walked rapidly toward the exit, completely abandoning his entourage.
The tension in the corner of the ballroom slowly dissipated.
Julian let out a slow, controlled breath, the violent rigidity leaving his broad shoulders. He turned around, his expression instantly softening as he looked down at Elara.
She was staring up at him, her whiskey eyes wide, her chest heaving against the red silk of her dress.
"Are you okay?" Julian asked gently, his large hands reaching out to cup her face.
"You threatened to buy his production studio," Elara breathed, a hysterical, beautiful laugh escaping her lips. "Julian, you don't even know what studio he works for."
"I have an eighty-million-dollar contract, sweetheart," Julian smirked, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "I’ll buy all of them if it keeps him away from you."
Elara’s heart shattered into a million beautiful pieces. The absolute, unwavering certainty in his voice completely eradicated the last lingering ghosts of her past. She wasn't broken. She wasn't a liability. She was loved by a man who would literally move mountains to see her smile.
"Get me out of here," Elara whispered, her eyes dropping to his lips. The overwhelming emotional high of the confrontation had morphed instantly into a blinding, desperate physical need. "Take me somewhere private, Julian. Right now."
Julian’s eyes darkened, the stormy gray igniting with a feral, consuming heat.