But here’s the thing... I don’t want it to be over.
Julian is amazing. Earlier today, before everything went sideways, he handled everything—the luggage, the car, the resort check-in. I watched him do all of this without breaking a sweat, like the world just rearranges itself around him when he wants something.
That version of Julian was impressive. Capable. Almost intoxicating to watch. This version—the one standing at the window like a statue, radiating tension I can almost taste—is something else entirely. Something that’s starting to feel less likecareful control and more like a cage barely containing what’s inside.
“Thank you,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “For what you said to my mom earlier. And to Preston. Before—” I hesitate. Before that man showed up. Before you turned into someone I didn’t recognize. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did.”
He turns from the window. Starts loosening his tie, and something about the gesture feels more intimate than it should. The way his fingers work the knot—gentle, unhurried. The way his collar falls open, revealing a sliver of pale throat.
“That’s what you’re paying me for,” he adds.
And just like that, the warmth drains out of the room.
“Right.” I look away, toward the balcony. “The money. I keep forgetting this is a transaction for you.”
“Don’t.”
The word comes out harsher than anything he’s said to me before. Sharp. Almost angry. I flinch, and I hate that I flinch, and I hate that he notices, and I hate that his expression flickers with something that looks almost like regret.
“I’m going to change for dinner,” I manage. “Give me twenty minutes.”
I disappear into my bedroom and close the door, pressing my hand against the wood, trying to remember how to breathe.
Here’s what I know: Julian Blackthorne is a professional. I hired him for a job. He is executing that job flawlessly—defending me from my mother’s passive-aggressive comments about my “little internet thing,” intimidating Preston with a single look that made my ex-fiancé actually take a step backward, charming my sister’s bridesmaids with that old-world politeness that makes everyone feel slightly underdressed and thoroughly delighted.
Here’s what I don’t know: why my chest aches every time he reminds me this is fake.
I catalog the evidence while I unzip my suitcase and pull out the blue dress. The one that matches my eyes, according to three different Instagram commenters. I’m aware it’s pathetic that I’m wearing a dress the internet chose. That’s not the worst part; I’m doing it because a stranger I’m paying complimented the color green—but I don’t own anything green. So blue is the next best thing. Why am I overthinking this?
Evidence for “Julian is just doing his job”:
He took my money (all of it)
He maintains physical distance unless we’re being observed
He never initiates contact outside of staged moments
He deflects every personal question with answers that sound rehearsed
