Control Me, Mr Brown

Chapter 9

Juliette’s voice slices through the gala like a champagne flute dropped on marble.

“Jason!”

The room pauses. Or maybe it’s just me. My breath catches mid-inhale, and the glass in my hand feels suddenly too heavy. Heads tilt. Eyes shift. I feel the weight of the entire ballroom pressing down, curious, waiting.

And him. Jason. His tall frame stiffens beside me, though his expression hardly flickers. For anyone else, he looks unbothered, the untouchable billionaire in his midnight suit, lips set in their usual straight line. But I’m too close, close enough to catch the subtle twitch in his jaw, the flare of something sharp and restrained in his eyes.

Juliette stands by the entrance like she owns the place. Of course she does—her gown is blood red, clinging to her body in a way that screams power and promise. She isn’t just beautiful; she’s strategic about it. Her presence demands attention, demands answers.

I hate that my stomach twists at the sight of her. I hate that I feel small in comparison, tucked beside Jason in my borrowed gown, every flaw suddenly magnified under the chandeliers.

She smiles, and it’s the kind of smile women sharpen like knives.

“Darling,” she says, walking forward, hips swaying as though every step is choreographed. “You didn’t tell me you’d be here.”

Jason doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. But his hand—resting at the small of my back—presses slightly harder. A warning? A reassurance? I can’t tell. My pulse skitters.

“Juliette.” His voice is smooth, detached. Too smooth. “You weren’t expected.”

The way he says her name makes something ugly coil in me. Too familiar, too practiced.

Her eyes flick to me then, and I feel the burn of her gaze, assessing, cataloguing. Her painted lips curve. “And who’s this?”

Every instinct in me screams to shrink, to stay quiet. But I don’t. Not with her looking at me like I’m nothing.

“Clara,” I say, lifting my chin. My voice doesn’t wobble, thank God. “I’m with Jason.”

A flicker of something flashes in her eyes—surprise, amusement, maybe even insult. She tilts her head, letting the diamonds at her ears catch the light.

“With Jason,” she repeats, as though testing the words. “How… interesting.”

The silence between them stretches, and I realize there’s history here. Something thick and unspoken. The kind of thing you can’t disguise, no matter how polished your smile. My chest tightens as I watch the way Juliette leans in, the way Jason’s hand tenses against my back.

I don’t know her, but I already hate her. And worse, I already know she matters.

The night spirals after that.

Juliette drapes herself into conversations like silk, floating from group to group, her laughter bright and rehearsed. But she always circles back. Her eyes, sharp as glass, cut to Jason again and again, pulling him into orbit without ever touching him.

Jason, for his part, doesn’t give her anything. At least not openly. His expression remains impassive, his attention seemingly locked on business partners, investors, the endless parade of hands to shake and deals to entertain. But I catch the way his gaze drifts when Juliette passes too close, the way his body stills when she laughs from across the room.

And me? I’m drowning in it.

I stand beside him, smile when I’m supposed to, say the right polite nothings when men with expensive watches ask who I am. But underneath, I’m unraveling. Every brush of Juliette’s gown, every arch of her brow, makes me wonder: who is she to him?

At one point, I slip away under the excuse of finding the restroom. Really, I just need air. My heels click too loudly against the marble as I move down a quieter hallway, away from the din of the ballroom.

I grip the railing of a staircase, sucking in a breath.

Jealousy is ugly. It tastes bitter on my tongue. But tonight, it’s all I can taste.

What did she mean to him? The thought loops in my head like a cruel song. Did she love him once? Did he let her touch the way he lets me? Did he look at her the way—

“Running already?”

Her voice slides in behind me, low and knowing.

I whirl, and there she is. Juliette. She looks even more dangerous up close, the kind of woman who knows exactly what her beauty can buy.

“I’m not running,” I say, even though that’s exactly what it looks like.

She smirks. “Of course not.” She steps closer, heels clicking, perfume curling into the air between us. It’s heady, expensive. Overpowering. “I was just curious. Jason doesn’t usually bring… companions.”

Companions. The word lands like a slap.

I straighten, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me falter. “Maybe I’m not usual.”

Her laugh is soft but sharp. “Oh, you’re not. Believe me, I know his type. And you? You’re not it.”

The confidence in her tone rattles me more than I want to admit. I clench my fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms.

“You speak like you know him so well,” I say.

Something flickers in her eyes then, a crack in the flawless mask. “I do.”

The words are a dagger. She doesn’t elaborate, but she doesn’t need to. The weight of them hangs heavy in the air between us.

I should walk away. I should ignore her. But instead, I find myself whispering, “What are you to him?”

Her smile spreads, slow and cruel. “You’ll find out. Sooner than you think.”

And with that, she turns, her gown whispering against the floor as she disappears back toward the noise and light of the gala, leaving me standing there, chest tight, skin burning.

By the time I return, Jason is waiting. His eyes find mine instantly, narrowing slightly as if reading the storm I’m carrying back with me. He says nothing, just extends his hand.

I take it. My grip is tighter than it should be.

He leads me out of the ballroom without a word, through polished corridors and into the waiting car. The silence between us is deafening, and I know he feels it too.

Finally, when the city lights blur past the tinted windows, I can’t take it anymore.

“Who is she?” My voice is low, rough.

Jason doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze stays fixed on the dark glass, his profile sharp against the passing glow of streetlamps. When he finally speaks, his words are clipped.

“She’s no one you need to worry about.”

It’s the worst possible answer.

“Don’t do that,” I snap, surprising even myself. “Don’t dismiss me. She’s not no one. I saw the way she looked at you. I saw the way you—”

His head turns then, sharply, his eyes locking onto mine. Cold. Piercing.

“The way I what?” he says softly. Too softly.

My throat tightens. I should stop. But I can’t. “The way you froze when she walked in. The way you can’t even say what she is to you.”

For a moment, neither of us breathe. The air is thick, charged, dangerous.

Then, suddenly, he leans closer. His hand cups the back of my neck, firm, unyielding, pulling me toward him. His mouth is at my ear when he says, low and lethal:

“Don’t push me, Clara.”

A shiver runs through me, equal parts fear and want.

But the question burns hotter than my restraint. I whisper back, “Then tell me.”

He doesn’t. Not that night.

And that silence, that refusal, is louder than any answer he could have given.