The silence in Julian’s house was thick, charged with the weight of the pact we’d sealed downstairs. The soft cotton sheets felt alien, the faint scent of his cedarwood cologne lingering in the air a constant reminder of the dangerous game we’d initiated. Sleep was impossible. My head spun, reenacting Ethan's icy disdain, the ethereal scent of her perfume, the stomach-churning sounds from my bedroom, and now, Julian's harsh honesty, his arms around me, a rope tossed into choppy waters. Operation Make Ethan Jealous was not just a ruse; it was balancing on a high wire over a pit of vipers.
Morning dawned, grey and tentative. Julian knocked softly, bearing coffee and a quiet resolve. "We need to make a statement," he told me, his tone measured but focused. "Something public. Something he cannot disregard."
"The Delacroix opening," I replied, the name rising up from the haze of society openings Ethan had usually dragged me to. "Tonight. He will be attending. Blackwell Industries is a patr
