Their next appearance together wasn't a red carpet or a high-society brunch, It was a Vogue cover shoot—intimate, curated and deliberately provocative. The kind of photo spread that blurred the lines between business and pleasure with the lighting of a French noir film.
The studio buzzed with stylists, assistants and lighting techs. It smelled like expensive setting spray, hairspray and the low hum of ambition. Cameras clicked in the background like a ticking clock counting down to exposure—literal and emotional.
Julian arrived already dressed; all black, black dress shirt, black tailored slacks, no tie. Sleek, dangerous. He looked like a man women warned their daughters about—too polished to be safe, too magnetic to resist.
Selena stepped out of wardrobe in a champagne satin dress that flowed like liquid light, clinging to every curve. The silk shimmered under the strobes, the neckline daring and the slit a whisper away from scandal.
The photographer was ecstatic. "Closer. Julian, hand on her waist. Selena, tilt your chin. Eyes locked—yes, perfect. Now again, but touch his chest. Just... feel each other."
Julian stepped forward all heat and control. His hand slid along her waist with practiced ease, Selena pressed her palm to his chest, just as directed. His heart was steady or maybe hers was just beating too fast to tell.
The photographer snapped away, murmuring delighted instructions.
Then, in a low voice, Julian said near her ear, "You're stiff."
Selena smiled without moving her lips. "I'm trying not to punch you."
He chuckled, low and smooth. "Try seduction instead."
Click.
She looked up at him—and for one suspended moment, the air thickened. His face was inches from hers. Their breath mingled, the distance between performance and reality grew dangerously thin.
Click.
Then it was over.
The camera flashed again, the assistant called for lighting adjustments and someone handed Selena a water bottle. The moment dissipated like smoke. But it lingered—behind her ribs, in the space between heartbeats.
After the shoot, the two of them were ushered into the Phantom, their "relationship" still playing out like a movie no one was sure how to end but this time, the silence wasn't easy.
Selena stared out the window watching the city blur into a stream of gold and glass, her reflection floated in the glass—composed, beautiful, unreadable.
Julian finally broke the quiet. "You're doing well."
She blinked slowly. "Thanks."
"You look natural."
"I've had years of practice pretending things are fine."
He looked over, eyes sharper now. "You don't have to pretend with me."
That made her turn.
She held his gaze, jaw tightening. "That's the whole point of this, isn't it? Pretending, selling the illusion."
Julian didn't reply. For once, the man who always had something clever to say said nothing at all.
The car rolled on carrying them toward separate nights in separate worlds.
Later, in her apartment, Selena peeled out of the satin dress and stood barefoot in the middle of her living room. The lights were dim. The city outside pulsed with life but her space was still—too still.
On her coffee table lay the mock campaign posters.
The Wolfe x Hart Collection.
Her face was next to his. His jawline framing her smile, her name once associated with PR scandals and heartbreak now sat boldly beside the gleaming logo of Wolfe Global.
She picked up one of the sheets and stared at it, eyes scanning every detail.
They looked good together, too good.
But none of it was real.
This was strategy, survival, a transactional alliance made of smoke and ambition.
And yet… she still felt that flash of warmth in her hand from earlier, the way he'd looked at her during the shoot, how his voice had dipped—not for the camera, not for the audience but just for her.
It meant nothing.
She couldn't afford for it to mean anything.
This wasn't a love story.
It was a contract.
And falling for Julian Wolfe?
That would be the most dangerous mistake of all.