Chapter Two

Juliet’s POV

Sometimes I can’t help but think that I’m stuck playing the role of the family glue.

While other girls my age were busy trying out makeup or dreaming about weddings, I was running a multimillion-dollar art gallery, cleaning up my brother’s PR messes, and making sure our family name didn’t end up in the tabloids like spoiled food.

Spoiler alert: I was totally failing.

“Mike’s trending again,” my assistant said, tossing a file onto my desk as if it didn’t come with a hefty emotional weight.

“Let me guess,” I replied flatly, “he told another influencer she was boring in bed?”

“Worse. This one called him a soulless incubus in a 15-slide I*******m rant. Her followers doubled overnight.”

Of course, they did.

I closed the folder without even glancing at it. I didn’t need another dose of lowercase Helvetica to remind me that my brother had zero emotional skills when it came to connecting with people.

Mike wasn’t intentionally cruel; he just didn’t know how to stick around. He loved hard but disappeared even harder.

And I had hit my limit.

The gallery, our family legacy, my reputation—all of them were one scandal away from disaster. I wasn’t about to let everything my dad worked for go up in flames because of one emotionally vacant bachelor.

What he needed was a wife.

But not just any wife.

Someone calm, down-to-earth, and genuinely appreciative. Definitely not a girl who wore revenge dresses and posted subtweets.

Someone like Bree Ferguson.

She had no idea she was my secret plan, which made her even better.

Bree was new to the gallery—nervous and shy. I could tell the moment she walked in, clutching that oversized portfolio and looking like she expected to be scolded any second.

Sweet. Apologetic. Small.

Invisible.

Exactly what I needed.

—

That evening, I threw together a laid-back “staff gathering” at the gallery’s rooftop—smooth jazz, cozy lighting, and top-shelf drinks flowing.

Bree was hanging out by the wall, sipping what she thought was orange juice. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

I strolled over to her with a smile that could light up a magazine cover. “How’s your first day going?”

She nodded with a shy grin. “Just a bit overwhelming.”

I handed her a fresh glass. “This one’s better. Less bitter. You’ll like it.”

She accepted it, trusting me.

That’s the thing about kind-hearted people—they often don’t realize they’re stepping into a trap until it’s too late.

—

Half an hour later, she was gently swaying on her feet. Her eyes looked a little too wide, and her lips were slightly parted as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t remember what.

I offered to walk her to the guest quarters in the upper gallery, which were meant for late-night curators and visiting artists. She didn’t argue.

I helped her into the comfy bed, dimmed the lights, and stepped out, shutting the door gently behind me.

Then I made the call.

—

To: Mike

Text: Upstairs. Guest suite 2. Now.

No details. Just a little nudge for the show.

To anyone else, it wouldn’t mean a thing.

To Mike, it meant a hookup. A convenient distraction. A soft landing pad.

I watched him get the message from the gallery’s security feed—my feed. At first, he looked annoyed, then curious.

Just as planned.

The little something I’d slipped into his drink earlier would be taking effect by now. Nothing dangerous—just enough to dull the edges, make things a little fuzzy, and lower his already sketchy impulse control.

---

Mike stood at the guest room door, blinking like the hallway had just transformed. His hand hovered over the doorknob before he finally pushed it open.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice low and cautious.

The dim bedside light cast a gentle glow on the bed. And there she was—Bree—curled up on her side, her lashes resting against her cheek, lips slightly parted in sleep. Her shirt was a bit wrinkled, and her curls sprawled across the pillow like a work of art.

Mike stepped inside.

He froze when he got a good look at her.

Confusion flickered in his eyes at first.

Then hesitation.

Then something darker.

He glanced around. No one else was there.

He checked his phone.

No names or extra details attached—just the message.

He looked back at her, and for just a moment—only a moment—he let the haze take over.

I leaned closer to the screen, my heart racing a bit as I watched him move toward her, taking careful steps like he was navigating a minefield. There was an almost hesitant quality to his approach, like he was wrestling with the possibility that she might evaporate into thin air if he got too close, as if she was a ghost and not just lying there in front of him.

He hesitated for just a moment, then reached out with a tentative hand. His fingers brushed lightly down her arm, taking in the softness of the skin beneath his touch.

She didn’t make a move—not a twitch, not a sigh. She lay there completely still, bathed in the warm, sleepy glow of the room.

His hand lingered a bit longer than necessary at her wrist, as if he was trying to reassure himself that she was indeed real and present. Then, he let his fingers drift down to her waist, brushing against the sheet that was draped over her, feeling the warmth radiating from her even through the fabric.

He finally found his seat on the edge of the bed, looking clearly conflicted. One hand got tangled in his hair, while the other continued its gentle exploration along her side, tracing the shape of her silhouette beneath the covers like he was memorizing every inch of her.

“Juliet…” he murmured, his voice thick and heavy, as if each word was a weight he was struggling to lift from his chest.

He dipped down closer, the warmth of his breath hitting her shoulder as he leaned in, inhaling her scent with an intensity that made it seem like he was trying to capture the moment itself, as if that smell was his lifeline.

Watching him, I could feel the anticipation hanging in the air. Each movement felt like it was charged with meaning, pulling me in closer. As he reached for the fabric at her hip, our eyes connected, and I could practically feel the magnetic pull between them.

“Just one night,” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. I had to crank up the volume on the recording because it was so quiet, so intimate, as if saying it any louder might shatter the fragile moment they were in.

Then came the kiss.

It was soft and exploratory—a bit messy, but there was something beautifully vulnerable about it. He pressed his lips against her, as if savoring every moment, like he realized that this might be the only time he would ever get to share this kind of closeness.

As if disturbed by this intimate connection, Bree stirred just a bit but remained blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding around her. Mike pulled back, blinking slowly, and I could see the tension that had been coiling in his body begin to unravel like a tightly wound spring finally releasing its grasp.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the moment before reaching again for the button of her jeans. But suddenly, something in his movements changed. There was a noticeable slowing down, a hesitation that sent a ripple of unease through my gut.

His eyelids fluttered as if they were fighting a losing battle. He swayed ever so slightly before—bam—his body just gave up on him. He collapsed sideways onto the bed, his arm slipping off her seamlessly, and his head landed with a lazy, dull thud beside hers on the pillow.

And there he lay—completely still, like a marionette with its strings cut—drugged, dead asleep, as though the universe had put him on pause.

I couldn't look away from the screen; the moment felt suspended in time. Here they were, their bodies close together, tangled in a web of clothes and dreams, yet nothing truly happened between them.

But honestly? It didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

The implications were more than enough. It was plenty to send Mike into a tailspin of confusion and dread. It was bound to trap him in a net he didn’t see coming. And it would be just the spark to ignite the story I needed the world to consume.

With a satisfied sigh, I leaned back in my chair, the blurry recording flickering along in the background, and a slow smile spread across my face. This was just the beginning, and I could already feel the thrill of what was to come.