Two days later, Selena Hart found herself gliding down Sunset Boulevard in the backseat of a midnight-black Rolls-Royce Phantom. The interior smelled like cedarwood and money. Soft jazz whispered through the speakers but it couldn't muffle the sound of her own heartbeat or the tension sitting silently beside her in the form of Julian Wolfe.
He looked like every bit of the billionaire enigma the tabloids made him out to be—sharp suit, sharper jawline and an aura so controlled it was practically chilling. Selena, in contrast, radiated curated glamour: her silk gown the color of champagne, a soft sheen on her skin, lips glossed like temptation.
This was their first official outing as a "couple."
A luxury wellness brunch hosted on a rooftop garden in Beverly Hills. Guests included clean beauty CEOs, A-list actresses and magazine editors with smiles as sharp as their pens. It was designed to be casual—but everyone knew appearances here were war.
Selena adjusted her dress and glanced sideways. "Is it too late to fake a car accident?"
Julian smirked but didn't look away from the window. "Probably, TMZ have a drone."
The car slowed to a stop just beyond a velvet rope where paparazzi buzzed like flies, cameras flashing in bursts of artificial lightning.
He turned toward her then, his voice low and almost amused. "Smile like you love me."
She rolled her eyes. "I don't even like you."
His lips barely moved. "But you love your business, don't you?"
Selena didn't reply she just fixed her expression into something radiant and camera-friendly, the kind of smile that sold products and masked grudges. The chauffeur opened the door, and Julian stepped out first. Then he reached a hand back, gentlemanly and perfectly rehearsed.
She slid her fingers into his and for a second, the grip was more than firm—it was grounding.
As they stepped onto the white carpet, the world erupted.
"Julian, over here!"
"Selena, is this your new man?"
"Are you two official?"
"Selena, what happened to you and Noah?"
She looped her arm through his tilting her head toward him like he was her favorite view in the room. Their chemistry? Flawless. Their body language? Deliciously ambiguous. The cameras devoured every second.
Inside, the venue sparkled like someone had poured champagne over a jewelry box. Golden floral arrangements towered over white marble tables, waiters glided by with crystal flutes and vegan hors d'oeuvres no one touched. The crowd was all hushed opulence—models with cold smiles, investors who thought money made them interesting, influencers who filtered their lives down to perfection.
Selena kept her posture impeccable, her hand resting lightly on Julian's arm, her laughter soft and well-timed. She had learned a long time ago that public image was just theatre with better lighting.
But then the room changed.
Savannah Leclair walked in.
Julian's ex.
She was the kind of woman who didn't just make an entrance—she owned it. Six feet of curated perfection, hair like molten obsidian, a dress that clung like it had a personal vendetta and confidence that moved like perfume. She swept through the crowd with the slow, deadly grace of a shark circling prey.
Her eyes locked on Julian—and then flicked to Selena.
There was no warmth in her smile. "Well," Savannah said coolly, her gaze skimming Selena from head to toe like a lazy insult. "He moved on fast."
Selena's smile didn't falter. "And up," she replied sweetly, lifting her champagne glass in a casual toast.
Savannah's lashes fluttered—just a flicker of surprise—and then she turned away without a word.
Julian said nothing his face was unreadable, carved from granite. If the moment bothered him, he didn't show it.
But Selena felt it.
Later, when the sky had turned a soft lavender and the party began to thin, she found Julian alone on the rooftop balcony, staring out over the city with a glass of scotch in one hand and the entire world at his feet.
She joined him without asking. Her heels clicked against the stone but he didn't turn.
"Why her?" she asked quietly. "Why now?"
He took a slow sip before answering, eyes fixed on the skyline. "Savannah's part of the old narrative, you're the new one."
Selena folded her arms. "That wasn't an answer."
Julian glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "You're good for the brand."
She let the words hang in the air like a bad perfume.
"And that's all this is?" she asked.
His silence was confirmation.
Selena exhaled, long and slow. "Sure," she said, though it didn't feel true.
They didn't speak again for the rest of the evening. They posed, smiled, pretended. Played the game.
But as the party ended and the valet pulled the Phantom around, Julian did something unexpected.
He helped her into the car.
Not just with a hand or a polite gesture—but with a quiet, steady touch at the small of her back and when their fingers brushed—just for a second—it was enough.
It wasn't choreographed
It wasn't planned
And it didn't feel fake
Selena looked up at him and something unspoken passed between them, delicate and dangerous.
For the first time since this twisted performance began, she wasn't sure who was acting and who wasn't.