To Love a Voss

Chapter3

I turn slowly toward the voice.

The man standing there is every kind of opposite to Damien.

Where Damien was all steel edges and storm-grey eyes, this one is warm light.

Loose smile. Easy posture. A glass of red wine dangling casually in one hand like he hasn’t a care in the world.

“I’m guessing he didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat for you,” he says, eyes flicking toward the space Damien had just occupied.

“I don’t think he’s the welcoming type,” I reply before I can stop myself.

That earns me a low, rich laugh — the kind that slips under your guard. “No. He’s not. But that’s why you’ve got me.”

He extends his hand, palm warm against mine.

“Julian Voss.”

The name hits me like a pebble in my shoe. Small, but impossible to ignore.

The Voss name has been orbiting the wreckage of my family for years. Never close enough to point a finger. Never far enough to forget.

Still, I smile politely. “Dawn.”

“Dawn,” he repeats, tasting the syllables like they mean something to him. “Beautiful name. Your parents must’ve known you were going to light up rooms.”

Heat crawls into my cheeks before I can smother it. I hate that his words land so easily.

Julian tips his head toward the champagne fountain. “Come on. Let me save you from whatever doom and gloom Damien was trying to put in your head.”

We move through the crowd, past clusters of jewel‑draped women and men who reek of old money and old grudges.

Julian’s hand rests lightly at the small of my back — guiding, never pushing — but it’s there. A reminder of his presence, of the control he could take if he wanted to.

He moves like he belongs everywhere, pausing only to greet people with smiles that get returned twice as bright. Some of them glance at me with faint curiosity, their expressions softening when they see I’m with him.

It’s… disarming.

We pass a balcony draped with white roses, the petals trembling in the winter breeze. Julian stops, plucks one, and offers it to me with a small flourish.

“For you,” he says simply.

It’s old‑fashioned. Ridiculous. And yet, I take it, brushing my fingers against his.

“You always carry flowers for the women you meet?” I tease.

“Only for the ones who look like they could use something beautiful tonight.”

The line is smooth, practised. But his eyes hold mine just long enough to make me wonder if there’s truth in it.

As we re‑enter the crowd, a woman in a sequined gown brushes past us, her perfume cloying. She leans toward Julian briefly.

“You shouldn’t,” she murmurs, too low for most to hear. “Not her.”

I glance at him, but his expression doesn’t flicker. He only tilts his head toward the woman’s retreating and mutters, “Ignore her.”

But my pulse has already quickened. Not her.

What could that possibly mean?

We stop near a tall cocktail table tucked beside a marble column, just far enough from the main crowd that conversation feels private.

“So,” he says, resting one elbow on the table and tilting his head, “what do you do, Dawn‑who‑should‑smile‑more?”

I tell him about working in PR, carefully omitting the part where I’m currently surviving under the thumb of Miranda Cole.

His grin widens. “Then you already know all about smoke and mirrors.”

I lift a brow. “Meaning?”

Instead of answering, he leans in just a fraction — close enough that his cologne, warm with cedar and something darker, threads through my thoughts.

“And you already know Damien’s wrong about me.”

My brows knit. “What?”

He chuckles, swirling the wine in his glass like this is a game he’s played before. “He told you not to trust me, didn’t he?”

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

That smile curves sharper — quick, almost imperceptible — before softening again.

But then, almost carelessly, he adds, “I’ve known Harringtons my whole life. You’re… different.”

Something in my stomach drops. I never told him my last name.

Before I can press him on it, Julian gestures toward a side door. “Come. There’s somewhere quieter.”

He leads me into a smaller lounge where only a handful of guests linger, sipping brandy beneath a haze of cigar smoke. The atmosphere is slower here, heavier.

Julian guides me toward a corner sofa, and when we sit, the space between us is almost nonexistent.

He watches me like he’s cataloguing every flicker of expression. “You’re not used to people like us anymore, are you?”

The question feels like a needle. Sharp. Probing.

I shake my head slightly. “Not… really.”

“Good,” he says simply, sipping his wine. “Stay that way. Biiterness makes people ugly.”

It’s said like a compliment. But it feels like a warning.

We return to the main ballroom, and Julian lifts his glass in a toast, as though the slip in the cigar room never happened.

“Don’t worry, Dawn,” he says, clinking his glass gently against mine. “I’m the fun brother.”

For a heartbeat, I believe him.

But his gaze lingers a beat too long — holding mine until the air feels thicker. And in that space between his charming smile and the weight in his eyes, I can’t tell if what he’s offering me is a promise… or a threat.

Before I can respond, the first notes of a slow waltz float from the string quartet in the corner. Couples drift toward the centre of the ballroom, hands finding hands, bodies turning into the rhythm.

Julian sets down his glass and extends his hand to me, palm open, smile easy but expectant.

“Dance with me.”

I hesitate, glancing at the swirl of gowns and black tuxedos. “I’m not exactly—”

He takes my hand before I can finish, his grip warm and certain. “Good. I prefer it when people don’t follow the rules.”

And then we’re moving — not in perfect time, but close enough. His palm is steady at my back, his gaze never once breaking from mine. Around us, laughter and champagne sparkle in the air, but all I can feel is the weight of him.

As he spins me gently under his arm, his lips brush close to my ear.

“See?” he murmurs. “Not so bad being with me, is it?”

I’m not sure if it’s the music, the heat of his hand, or the quiet thread of challenge in his voice — but something in me knows: if I keep dancing with Julian Voss, I might never want to stop.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

Julian’s hand is still warm against mine when Damien’s shadow cuts across the dance floor.

“Enough,” Damien says, his voice low but edged like glass.

Julian doesn’t miss a beat. “Brother.” The word drips with mock affection.

Damien’s eyes shift to me, cool and unblinking. “She’s leaving.”

I glance between them, pulse spiking. “I—”

“Go get your coat,” Damien orders, his gaze never leaving Julian’s.

Julian leans in just enough for me to hear, his smile razor‑thin now. “Careful, Dawn. Once you choose a side… there’s no going back.”

And for the first time tonight, I wonder if walking away from this dance will save me—

or ruin me.