Deal: Call me when you are ready

Julian's Pov

I have known my share of beautiful women. But the one sitting next to me now exists in a different category entirely. She is not just beautiful; she is devastating. And, of course, she is married. Some guys have all the fucking luck.

“I am going to take a wild guess that your name is not Maggie,” I say, hoping to break the ice.

“No,” is her flat, one-word reply.

I nod, giving her space to offer more. She does not. “So, what should I call you?”

Her gaze slides back to me, slow and deliberate. I cannot lie; wherever her eyes land, my skin heats.

“Look,” I say, raising my hands in a placating gesture. “I am not making a move. I am on a permanent vacation from women, to be honest. They are a complicated species.”

She barks a short, humorless laugh. “You are the one who just molested a perfect stranger to escape a woman you clearly screwed over, and you are calling us complicated? You men are all fucking identical.”

She throws back her drink like it is water, grimacing as it goes down. That is her second shot in under five minutes. I have to admit, I am impressed.

“Let us try this again,” I propose. “I am Julian.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I gathered. Your ‘complicated’ friend would not stop screaming it.”

“She is not my friend,” I clarify.

“Whatever.”

Perfect. Another woman who has me pegged as the villain within five minutes of meeting me. I suppose I earned that one.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” I try again.

Everything about her radiates money. She is either old-money aristocracy or the trophy wife of a corporate titan. The Louboutins, the Rolls-Royce keys on the bar, the cut of her dress, it all adds up to serious wealth. Maybe that is why she is guarding her identity.

“You do not have to give me your last name,” I say with a smile. “But you look like you could use an ear. And since you just saved my hide, it is the least I can offer.”

She assesses me for a long moment, her face a perfect, beautiful mask, before she finally concedes. “Bianca. My name is Bianca.”

“It is good to meet you, Bianca,” I say, and offer my hand. She takes it.

*************

Bianca is on her fifth whiskey and has become an unstoppable force, spilling her life story as if we are old confidants. I have already signaled the bartender to cut her off, but she has not noticed.

“…So I am just standing there, and the two of them are walking up the stairs. To my bedroom. And do you know what that bitch says to me?” She does not wait for an answer. “She tells me I have to get out of my own room. My own fucking room.” She laughs, a raw, broken sound that dissolves into a coughing fit, and then into a quiet sob.

I am at a loss. How do you console another man’s wife without overstepping?

“Bianca,” I say, my voice low. “Are you all right?”

She shakes her head, a messy, defeated motion. “I need another drink.”

“No,” I tell her. “You do not.”

Her head snaps up, her eyes blazing. “Excuse me? You think I need another person dictating my life? You can all go to hell. I said I need a drink.” She raps her empty glass on the bar, but Valentina knows better than to refill it.

“Sorry,” I say. “I own this place, and I cannot let you have any more.”

Her eyes narrow to slits. “Oh, you own the bar? How wonderful for you. I will find a different one.”

She tries to stand, but I move to block her path.

“Listen to me, Bianca. I know you are in pain, but this is not the solution. Have you considered a divorce?”

For the first time, the fire in her eyes dies, and she sinks back onto the stool. “I cannot. I will not be the family disappointment. They all depend on Brandon’s money.”

I cannot stop a derisive snort. “Screw them. This is your life. No one deserves to make you feel this way.”

She offers me a cynical smile. “Easy for you to say, Mr. I-Own-the-Bar.”

I have seen people like Bianca before, trapped in a toxic marriage, claiming it is for family when it is really a heart that refuses to surrender. She is not ready to let him go. Love can do that; it chains you to a sinking ship. I understand that feeling better than I care to admit.

What can I possibly suggest that does not involve telling her to grow a spine or offering to kidnap her from the situation?

Then, an idea forms. “You know what you need?” I say. “You need a boyfriend. Someone you can parade in front of Brandon.”

“A boyfriend?” She stares at me as if I have lost my mind.

It is a ridiculous plan, but I know one thing about cheating men: they cannot stand the thought of being cheated on. It will drive him insane. My hope is it pushes Brandon to end things, since she lacks the courage to do it herself.

“It does not have to be real,” I add. “Just hire someone to play the part until Brandon comes crawling back.”

Bianca is quiet for a moment, turning the idea over. “That is… actually not terrible,” she says, surprising me. “Do all bar owners give such quality advice?”

I laugh. “We do our best.”

“Okay, but where exactly am I supposed to find this ‘boyfriend’?”

The words are out of my mouth before I can reconsider. “I could do it.”

Her eyes travel over me again, this time with a slow, appraising intensity. “You?”

“It is simpler than hiring a stranger. No interviews, no background checks. I am single, not looking for anything real, and I enjoy a good mess. I would be perfect for the job.”

She studies me, a general evaluating a new recruit. After a long pause, she says, “You are good-looking enough.”

I start to speak, but she cuts me off.

“Do not ask.” She pulls out her phone. “So, what is your f*e?”

I had not considered money. I do not need it, but offering to do it for free would seem strange.

“What is your offer?” I play along.

She glances around the bar, one arm sweeping the room as if to assess its value. The diamond on her finger winks under the lights, a small, cold star.

“This is a decent place,” she states. “What does it pull in a year? Two hundred thousand? Maybe five?”

I keep my expression neutral.

“I will double it,” she says.

I raise an eyebrow. “The two hundred?”

“The five hundred.”

Well, fuck. She is serious. “Deal. But I only take the money after the job is done.”

She extends her hand. “Deal.”

I shake it, her skin impossibly soft against my palm. I grab a napkin, scribble my number on it, and hand it over. “Call me when you are ready.”

She tucks the napkin into her purse and gives me one last, unreadable look before walking out. I follow, escorting her to the waiting Rolls-Royce.

“Are you sure you are okay to drive?” I ask.

“I am not that far gone, Julian.”

“Alright,” I say. “Call me.”

She pulls away, the car dissolving into the night. A pang of guilt twists in my gut for letting her leave like that. But what the hell else was I supposed to do? I walk back into my bar, already wondering what kind of disaster I have just signed up for.