CHAPTER THREE
1309 Words
Isabelle didn’t sleep that night.
Even with the soft click of her apartment door shutting behind her, the echo of Julian’s words lingered on her mind. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the way he’d looked at her—not just with interest, but like he was pulling strings she didn’t know existed. And the worst part? She wanted to be pulled.
She changed into her pajamas, poured herself a glass of water, and sat at the edge of her bed, staring at the skyline through the window. Lights blinked in the distance, but all she could see was the way his eyes darkened when he spoke, the deliberate way he touched her shoulder—as if asking her body questions her mind hadn’t dared to voice.
What was she even doing?
This man—Julian West—was trouble disguised as elegance. Power cloaked in charm. And he wanted her to step into his world.
Part of her wanted to run.
The other part wanted to see just how deep the rabbit hole went.
---
The next morning, Isabelle found a package outside her door.
It was simple—black wrapping paper, tied with a silver ribbon. Inside was a cream-colored envelope, her name written in bold, dark ink.
I don’t like waiting. -J
Below the note lay a sleek, black key card with a hotel logo embossed in gold.
Room 1802. 8:00 p.m. Tonight.
No instructions. No explanation.
Just temptation in its purest form.
---
She stared at the card all day.
She tried to work, but every word on her laptop blurred into white noise. She called her best friend, Layla, who immediately screamed, “You got a hotel room key from Julian West? What is he, Christian Grey’s richer cousin?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Isabelle had muttered, but the butterflies in her stomach had other plans.
Now, at 7:59 p.m., she stood outside Room 1802 in a black silk dress she hadn’t even known she owned. Hair curled, her heartbeat drumming a war rhythm in her chest.
She didn’t know if she was making the biggest mistake of her life—or the most thrilling.
She slid the key card in.
The door clicked open
---
The suite was candlelit.
Not overly done—just enough for warmth. A low jazz record played from somewhere, the sound curling like smoke across the plush carpet.
Julian stood by the window, phone in hand, sleeves rolled up, a glass of whiskey untouched beside him. He turned the moment the door clicked shut behind her.
“Right on time,” he said.
“I wasn’t sure if I’d come,” Isabelle replied.
He set his phone aside and gave a slow smile. “I was.”
Her eyes swept the room, taking in the quiet opulence—the thick velvet curtains, the long couch, the untouched sushi spread, the wine already breathing. A scene set with deliberate care.
“So this is how you do contracts?” she asked, stepping further inside. “Dim lighting, raw fish, and jazz? Very Fifty Shades of Business.”
Julian chuckled. “If you came here expecting a dungeon, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“I came here expecting answers.”
He poured her a glass of wine and handed it to her. His fingers brushed hers intentionally.
“Ask,” he said.
She didn’t sit, didn’t sip. “Why me?”
Julian studied her, expression unreadable. “Because you’re not looking for a fairy tale.”
“That’s your pitch?” Isabelle arched a brow. “Hire me to play your fake girlfriend because I’m not delusional?”
He moved closer, slow and precise, like a wolf circling.
“My pitch,” he said, voice smooth, “is that I need someone who doesn’t panic under pressure. Someone who doesn’t cling. Someone with a brain and backbone. You walked into that gala and insulted me within thirty seconds. That’s a rare skill.”
She rolled her eyes. “So romantic.”
“I’m not offering romance, Isabelle. I’m offering a contract.”
“A very vague one,” she shot back. “What exactly do you want from me?”
He finally sat, draping an arm along the back of the couch. “I need a girlfriend for the next six months. Public appearances. Charity events. My sister’s wedding in Italy. Smiles for the press. Occasional hand-holding and convincing chemistry. That’s it.”
“And you’re willing to pay?” she asked, folding her arms.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
He named the figure.
Isabelle’s heart stopped.
She blinked, recalculated, then blinked again. “You could buy a house with that.”
“Buy two,” Julian said. “But I’m not paying you to pretend. I’m paying you to convince.”
“Convince who?”
He took a sip of whiskey. “My board. My mother. The media. Everyone who keeps asking why I haven’t ‘settled down.’”
“And after six months?”
“We break up. Dramatically, if you’d like.”
“You’re serious?”
He didn’t smile. “Deadly.”
She took a breath, pacing slowly in front of the window. “And what happens if people find out this is fake?”
Julian’s jaw tightened. “They won’t.”
“But if they do?”
He met her gaze. “Then the deal’s off, and you keep the money anyway.”
She froze. “Even if it ruins your image?”
He stood. Walked toward her. “I’ll take the risk.”
The tension thickened, electric and sharp. He stopped a foot away from her, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his irises.
“Why not just hire an actress?” she asked, voice softer.
“Because I don’t want fake chemistry,” he said. “I want real tension. Something that sells without needing a script.”
She swallowed.
“And you think we have that?”
Julian’s gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. “You tell me.”
Isabelle stepped back instinctively, needing space. “So I smile, hold your hand, charm your mother. You pay me. And that’s it?”
He nodded. “No strings. No bed-sharing. No actual relationship. Just appearances.”
She narrowed her eyes. “But?”
He smiled. “But… if at any point you want to make it look more convincing, I won’t stop you.”
Her breath hitched.
He was dangerous.
And brilliant.
And infuriatingly attractive.
And offering her enough money to change her life.
Isabelle took a long sip of wine. “And if I say no?”
Julian’s voice was velvet. “Then I’ll find someone else. But they won’t be you.”
The air pulsed between them.
Isabelle closed her eyes briefly, trying to shut out the heat curling low in her belly.
When she opened them, he was still there—calm, confident, and completely unreadable.
“You’ll have to sign an NDA,” he added.
“Of course.”
“And attend fittings. There’ll be photographers. Questions.”
She gave a dry smile. “I’ve been fake smiling since high school. I think I’ll manage.”
He watched her for a long moment. “So…?”
Isabelle finished her wine and set the glass down with a quiet clink.
“Give me the contract.”
Julian’s smile was slow. Satisfied.
He reached into a drawer, pulled out a folder, and handed it over.
She didn’t open it right away. “This doesn’t mean I trust you.”
He leaned down, eyes locked on hers.
“Good. Trust is dangerous.”
And then he was gone—retreating back to the couch, sipping his whiskey like they hadn’t just sealed a deal that would change everything.
- Writer
