The Hidden Heiress Caught Between Two Brothers

CHAPTER 2

JULIANA

I’d been in a frenzy all morning. By the time I reached the airport, I was practically running.

If anyone had told me I’d be on my way to New York that day, I’d have laughed in their face. I wasn’t supposed to take that trip. At the time, I didn’t want to. But Michael had begged me to apply for that journalist position a month earlier, insisting it would be “good for my career.” Back then, I thought he was being supportive. Sweet, even. Turns out he just wanted me gone — far enough for him to screw my best friend in peace.

Now I knew why he had encouraged me to “spread my wings” — so he could spread someone else’s legs.

Pathetic bastard.

Well, there I was, dragging my broken pride through O’Hare Airport like it was luggage I couldn’t check in. I had told myself I’d never let a man dictate the pace of my life again. So, when the email came the previous day confirming my interview slot, I accepted immediately. Not because I cared anymore about the job — but because I refused to sit in that city, in that apartment, surrounded by memories of him and judy’s betrayal.

If running was what he wanted, then fine. I’d run. But not away. Not anymore.

I’d run toward something that was mine.

On the bright side, flying first class is really cool. The lounge looked chill and the latte tasted really nice. Not that I had paid for it, though. I did not expect it but the company I was interviewing with had booked the flight themselves, all the way to New York. That alone had to mean something, right? Companies didn’t just throw money around for some random applicant.

Still, my bank account was bleeding. I was neck-deep in student loans, and after the stunt Michael had pulled, I’d probably have to resell the anniversary gift I’d bought him just to crawl back to financial breathing space. The thought alone made my chest ache, but what choice did I have?

I looked up, and the man across from me seemed too oblivious to all the ruckus going on in my head. He was sitting with his head bent over his mobile device, his left hand spread casually over the backrest. With his right hand, he typed at the keypad impatiently, like a boss whose staff had just messed up.

I’d caught him glancing at me a few times, but I’d had a lot on my mind, and that chair was too divine for me to care about some stranger’s wandering eyes.

Until he looked up again and our eyes met. This time, I gasped a little.

Not because he was handsome — though he was, in that infuriating, chiseled-jaw, tousled-dark-hair kind of way — but because he had the audacity to smirk at me when my latte spilled all over my carry-on as our gazes locked.

“Rough day?” he drawled, typing away again, as though my minor disaster was beneath his notice.

I clenched my jaw. “Not your business,” I muttered, swiping at the mess with a wad of napkins I’d hurriedly stuffed in my purse that morning. I could feel his gaze on me now, slow and assessing, like he was taking inventory of every frayed edge of my patience.

I refused to look up. I had a rule about men like him — arrogant, polished, the kind who probably owned a black Aston Martin and a penthouse in every major city. The kind who thought the world owed them everything.

And yet… when I finally risked another glance, my pulse betrayed me so traitorously. His eyes were intense, and there was something dangerous in them. An intriguing combination of wealth and power.

“You’re staring,” he said, his impetuous smirk deepening.

I forced myself to look away. “And you’re irritating.”

“Direct. I like that.” He smiled.

“I don’t care what you like.”

His grin only widened, as if amused by my irritation. “Flight’s delayed for some more minutes. You could at least tell me your name.”

“Or I could not.”

Something flickered in his expression. Looked like surprise, or maybe respect. But then it quickly dissipated, and he slid back that arrogant mask.

I should have left. Walked away. Found another seat. There were at least a dozen empty seats.

But I didn’t. I was stuck between irritation and attraction.

After a few seconds, I did the only sane thing a woman with shredded dignity and a delayed flight could do. I grabbed my bag, checked the time on the monitor for the hundredth time, and decided I needed distance. From his eyes and his stupid smirk.

“Enjoy the delay,” I muttered under my breath, more to myself than to him, as I rose from the seat and slung my carry-on over my shoulder.

I’d barely taken two steps away when I heard his voice again.

“Where do you think you’re going, Juliana?”

The voice froze me mid-step.

Juliana?

How in seven hells did he know my name?

STRANGER

I watched her freeze when I said her name. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, and for a second, I almost felt bad.

Almost.

Then her expression shifted from fear to confusion and then to that stubbornness I love.

“I didn’t tell you my name,” she said turning carefully, her voice a low tremor.

I tilted my head. “You didn’t have to.”

Her brows pulled together, and I nodded toward her carry-on. The tag hanging from the zipper read Juliana Juliana Sachs. The edges were frayed, the ink half-faded. She probably hadn’t noticed.

“Oh,” she muttered, a nervous sigh escaping her lips. “Right. The tag.”

I shrugged and leaned back in my seat. “Relax, Juliana. I don’t make a habit of stalking women at airports.”

“Good to know,” she said dryly. “Because you’re really giving off weird vibes.”

That dragged a half-smile out of me.

For a moment, silence stretched between us. Some awkward and charged silence.

She was probably wondering whether she'd keep walking or sit back down.

“You heading to New York for work?” I asked, breaking the silence but still keeping my tone casual.

She nodded faintly. “Interview.”

“Journalism?”

She raised her eyebrows again in disbelief. “How—?”

“Your tote,” I said, nodding toward the edge of a weathered press badge peeking out of the pocket, from a publication I knew too well. “You’re either a journalist or a really convincing liar.”

“Maybe I’m both.” she replied with concern on her face.

It seemed as though I was beginning to actually spook her.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

I studied her for a second longer. She looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than a bad night’s sleep—like someone who’d been holding herself together with tape and pride for too long.

The announcement system crackled overhead, calling out updates. Her flight was leaving soon.

I already knew she wouldn’t be flying out and straight into an interview. I’d made sure the itinerary included a hotel, a buffer night. I wanted her off-balance, but not desperate. Just aware of the difference in the world I was about to introduce her to.

She checked the monitor for the umpteenth time, then blew out a breath. “I should probably go find my gate.”

“So dramatic,” I said lightly. “You’ll be fine.”

“You’ll survive,” I continued quietly. “Try to enjoy it.”

Her gaze held mine for a moment, wary but curious. I could almost see the questions burning behind her eyes.

“Well,” she said finally, tightening the strap of her bag on her shoulder, “if I don’t see you again… thanks for your unsolicited psychoanalysis, I guess.”

“Anytime,” I replied.

“uhmm,” she says, tightening the strap on her shoulder, “I guess this is goodbye.”

“Guess so,” I replied.

She took a step toward the gate, then stopped. She turned halfway back to me, with a quizzical look on her face. “You never told me your name.”

I met her eyes — really looked into them this time — and let the faintest smile tug at the corner of my mouth.

“Don’t worry,” I said softly. “You’ll be seeing me around.”

Before she could respond, I stood from my seat and disappeared into the stream of travelers.