The morning sun, filtering through the panoramic windows of the guest suite, felt alien on Layla's skin. She'd barely slept.The deal with Julian Black replayed in her mind on a loop. Thirty days. Appearances. Pretending to be the property of a man she barely knew.
It sounded like madness in the light of morning.
Looking out at the sprawling cityscape, she felt a strange sense of detachment, as if she were watching someone else's life unfold.
A soft knock on the door announced Julian's presence. He entered, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his expression coolly professional. He carried two steaming mugs. "Coffee?"
"Please," Layla said, her voice still a little rough.
He handed her a mug, the rich aroma a small comfort. "Our performance begins now, Layla."
She met his gaze, a flicker of apprehension mixed with a strange sense of excitement. "Right."
Julian outlined the morning's strategy. A staged departure, a lingering kiss for the (imaginary) paparazzi, a subtle hand-hold as they walked towards his waiting car. It felt surreal, like rehearsing for a play where the audience was her own life.
As they stepped out of the penthouse elevator, Julian's demeanor shifted. The cool detachment was replaced by a subtle warmth, a proprietary air as he placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her towards the exit. Layla instinctively leaned into his touch, playing her part.
The doorman, who had always greeted Mark with a polite nod, offered Julian a respectful, almost deferential, bow. His eyes flickered to Layla, widening slightly with curiosity. Layla offered a small, demure smile.
Outside, a sleek black car waited. Julian turned to her, his eyes holding a silent instruction. He cupped her cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle, and leaned in for a kiss. It started as a chaste brush of lips, but Julian deepened it slightly, his mouth warm and firm against hers. Layla responded instinctively, a strange mix of nerves and a surprising spark igniting within her.
The kiss was brief but effective. As they parted, Layla saw the doorman's eyebrows practically disappear into his hairline. Mission accomplished.
Inside the car, the professional mask returned to Julian's face.
"Effective," he murmured to himself, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "The rumors will start flying before Mark even gets to the office."
Layla's heart still pounded in her chest. The kiss, though staged, had felt…real. Too real. She pushed the thought away, focusing on the task at hand. Revenge.
Later in the afternoon, with her phone vibrating in her hand and his name flashing across the screen—Julian Blackwood calling—it felt like a decision she couldn't back out of.
She answered on the third ring.
"You have a fitting in one hour," he said. "Don't be late."
Click.
No hello. No goodbye.
Layla stared at the phone, stunned.
He hadn't asked if she was free. He hadn't asked if she was ready.
Because men like Julian Blackwood didn't ask.
They expected obedience.
Her stomach twisted, half nerves, half adrenaline. Maybe she should cancel. Walk away. This wasn't her world.
But another part of her—the part that still saw Ryan's smug face when he asked for the ring back—refused.
She dressed quickly, grabbed her bag, and left.
Let the games begin.
The stylist's studio was tucked inside a high-rise in Midtown. Glass doors, soft jazz, champagne flutes.
"Miss Hayes?" a woman in black greeted her. "Mr. Blackwood requested three looks for this week. One charity gala, one dinner at the Four Seasons, and a boardroom brunch."
Layla blinked. "He already scheduled events?"
The woman smiled. "Julian Blackwood doesn't play pretend, Miss Hayes. He stages performance art."
Layla stepped into the fitting room and stared at the gowns: expensive fabrics, impossible heels, dresses that whispered danger.
Somewhere beneath the anxiety, something stirred.
Power.
For the first time in a long time, someone had noticed her—not as an afterthought, but as a weapon.
She slipped into the first dress: black, backless, high-slit.
Layla stood in front of the mirror. It was bold. Beautiful. Unapologetic.
She didn't recognize the woman in the reflection.
She liked that.
When she stepped out, Julian was there.
Sitting casually. Watching her like a man with all the time in the world.
Layla froze.
"I don't remember inviting you in here," she said.
He shrugged. "You agreed to be seen with me. That includes approving the packaging."
Layla narrowed her eyes. "You really enjoy control, don't you?"
He stood, slowly approaching. Not touching. Just... circling.
"I don't waste time," he said. "And I don't make deals I won't win."
She straightened her shoulders. "Well, I'm not a pawn."
"No," Julian murmured, eyes glinting. "You're a queen. That's why I chose you."
The compliment landed too softly. Too unexpectedly.
It didn't feel like flattery. It felt like a strategy.
Julian checked his watch.
"Car picks you up tomorrow at six. Wear the silver dress."
He turned to leave—then paused at the door.
"Oh, and Miss Hayes?"
"Yes?"
He glanced over his shoulder, that ghost of a smile returning.
"Try not to fall for me too quickly."
Then he was gone.
And Layla was left standing in a dress she hadn't paid for, in a role she hadn't prepared for, with a man who already knew how to disarm her.
She walked out of the boutique with her shoulders back, for the first time in months. Her dresses were paid for with the black card he had given her in the morning.
"You are my responsibility as of now." He said in the morning while giving her the card. "Make sure you get everything you'd need with this."
She had no idea what Julian Blackwood had planned.
But for once, she didn't feel like prey.
She felt like the storm.
This was just the beginning.