I turned my head slightly.
“They might,” I said.
“They will,” he corrected, without hesitation. “They’ve been talking about a promotion. And if the rumors are true, the real owner might even show up tonight. The mysterious president.”
I held his gaze for a second longer than usual.
“I hope you impress her,” I said.
He smiled, satisfied.
And completely unaware.
The ballroom opened up in front of us in a wash of gold and glass, conversations flowing as easily as the champagne, every detail polished to reflect a version of success that people could step into for a few hours and pretend was permanent, and Julian moved through it exactly the way he always did—like someone who believed he belonged at the center of it.
He greeted people by name, laughed at the right moments, leaned in just enough to suggest familiarity without overstepping, and all the while, I stayed beside him, not invisible, but not acknowledged either, existing in that quiet space he had assigned me earlier with a single sentence.
The nanny.
It was almost impressive, in a way, how consistent he was.
When we reached the inner section of the room, where the conversations lowered and the stakes rose, Julian straightened slightly, his attention locking onto a small group near the stage, and I could feel the shift in him—the focus, the calculation, the anticipation of being seen by the one person whose approval he had been chasing for months.
“That’s Maxwell Thorne,” he said under his breath. “This is it.”
We moved closer.
Maxwell turned as we approached, his expression composed, his presence quiet but unmistakable, and as Julian began speaking—confident, articulate, rehearsed—I noticed something he didn’t.
Maxwell wasn’t listening to him.
Not really.
He was looking at me.
Not with curiosity.
With recognition.
It was brief.
Subtle.
But it was enough.
“And this is?” Maxwell asked, his tone neutral, his gaze steady.
Julian didn’t hesitate.
