Chapter 10: Brunch from Hell

Isla POV

I showed up fashionably late purposely, my best survival strategy to dodge Mama’s interrogation. Sure, it meant I’d have to risk getting obliterated by Dad’s rage.

My father doesn't just value punctuality; he worships it like a religion. So I arrived right at the last legally acceptable minute. Technically, not late.

The cab dropped me off in front of the Ansley house, and it looked as though someone had yanked it straight out of a Bridgeton set. My siblings’ cars filled the driveway, resembling an aristocratic car show.

Our family home was big. But the moment everyone gathered under one roof, it felt like a closet stuffed with clothes no one ever wears but refuses to throw out. Claustrophobic chaos with a luxury finish.

I snuck in through the side door, heading toward the outdoor dining area. Laughter floated through the air, loud and familiar. The smell of food hit me like a punch to the stomach.

From the main room, Dad’s laugh thundered like a full orchestra, forcing the entire house to join in the symphony. He and my brothers were already there, while our private chefs bustled around preparing brunch like it was the damn Met Gala. Normally, I’d be the first to arrive and sneak a few quality control bites before anyone noticed. Perks of being underestimated.

But just as I stepped into the backyard, something stopped me cold.

Someone new was standing near my dad.

I froze, then slowly backed up and peeked from behind a wine cabinet like the world’s worst spy.

Julian Wolfe. Standing in my house. Looking stupidly attractive and like he belonged there.

What the hell?

Yesterday, this man rejected me without flinching. Even when I begged like a pathetic intern in the damn parking lot, he didn’t budge.

“Isla, what are you doing there? Call your father; the food is ready.” Mama's voice snapped me out of my existential meltdown.

I stepped out of my hiding spot like a criminal caught mid-heist. “Papa, brunch is ready.”

He clapped Julian’s shoulder like they were old college buddies. “We’ll finish this later.”

My dad could be warm and friendly to literally anyone. Except me.

He walked off toward the garden table, my brothers trailing behind like obedient little ducklings.

When he passed by, I grabbed his arm and yanked him behind the wine shelf, away from every nosy ear and eye in this godforsaken manor.

“You’re here?” I hissed, my hand still clutching his sleeve like an idiot.

“No food at home, and I was hungry,” he said, but with a ghost of a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

I huffed a soft laugh, smiling despite myself. “Thank you.”

“A surprise for my girlfriend?” he teased, tone casual.

I knew he wasn’t serious, but my heart decided to have hope anyway, that reckless little bitch.

“I’m not staying long,” he added, brushing off the heat in the air like it wasn’t even there. “I told your dad I have another appointment. You’re coming with me.”

“What?”

“I never agreed to spend an entire day pretending to be your fake boyfriend at your parents’ house. Two hours. That was the deal.” His calm voice carried a quiet authority that made arguing pointless.

I blinked. “Wait. You want me to go with you?”

“Unless you’d rather stay?” he said, raising a brow.

I shook my head quickly, as if someone had just offered me a one-way ticket out of purgatory. “No, thanks. I’m going with you.”

Julian let out a quiet chuckle and took my hand. He led me back toward the outdoor dining table, where the entire Ansley clan sat together, resembling the royal family at a press conference.

My heart pounded in my chest as if it were trying to escape. All eyes turned to me, then to Julian. Only Mama and Papa were aware of our secret.

God help me.

“Sorry I’m late.” I gave a half-hearted wave, the kind that screamed awkward. “Everyone, meet my boyfriend, Julian.”

The word boyfriend slid off my tongue like a melting ice chip. Gone too fast to take back.

But honestly, this whole family of overachieving lawyers practically lives for drama. I figured I might as well serve them a fresh episode.

Their reactions were extremely underwhelming. Probably because Julian had already arrived before me. And my brothers had already conducted a silent five-second scan to calculate his net worth, credit score, and moral alignment.

The only ones who looked remotely interested were the in-laws. Naturally, Irene, the Queen of Interrogations, was like the lead detective in the courtroom. Her eyes narrowed, already dissecting us like we were two overly affectionate defendants about to plead insanity.

I tugged Julian toward the empty chair beside Viviane, the only decent human being here who remembered how to smile without a hidden agenda.

“Hi, welcome. Finally, Isla brings someone home.” Her voice was warm, light, and sincere.

I almost forgot that kind of tone existed in the Ansley family.

“I’m Viviane, Matteo’s wife.”

Julian reached out and shook her hand. “Julian,” he said, calm as ever.

That effortless charm. He spoke like someone who knew he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.

Normally, I was just background noise in the Ansley dining room. But today, I was suddenly the main act. Or, more accurately, Julian was.

My dad and brothers seemed to forget that this brunch was supposed to be a family bonding moment. They interrogated Julian as if he were applying for a senior partner position. They meticulously analyzed and assessed every word he spoke.

And then, like a shark catching the scent of blood, Irene finally made her move.

“So…how long have you two been together?” She asked sweetly, the kind of sweet that always tastes like arsenic.

But Julian turned his head to me and silently handed me the mic.

“Three months today,” I chirped, way too enthusiastically for what was essentially a brunch in hell. “And you promised to take me to dinner for our monthversary, remember?”

He frowned slightly, almost imperceptibly. The movement was so subtle that it could have been mistaken for a twitch. However, instead of getting upset, he simply took a deep breath and remained calm.

Rachel, who seemed to be trying to imitate Irene, spoke up from across the table. “Mom’s obsessed with Eleanor Rowe. So am I. We cannot wait for the grand opening. You’ll make sure we’re invited, right?”

Julian turned to her with unwavering confidence in his voice. “Of course. That way, everyone can see Isla’s work.”

The surrounding noise faded as if someone had stuffed cotton in my ears.

He wasn't boasting or trying to impress me like a fake boyfriend in a brochure. He was simply stating a fact. But that fact had more impact than any insincere compliments from my manipulative exes.

He said my name, attaching it to something I did, in front of people who never acknowledged my existence beyond being the youngest daughter in the Ansley bloodline.

Julian wasn’t the first guy I brought to a family brunch. But he was the first who didn’t treat me like a backstage pass to get closer to Daddy dearest.

My last boyfriend practically polished my dad’s shoes with his tongue. He rambled for twenty minutes about life goals and subtly hinted that mine needed to be realigned. It took me less than a night to delete his number and my dignity.

Men like that don’t get to narrate my life. Not even a single damn inch of it.

Now I understood what it felt like to be seen. Even if it was just pretend.

“So your job is just dressing up mannequins?” Irene's tone was warm and inviting, yet it cut through like a sharp dagger.

Beneath the table, a hand slid into mine. He gave it a subtle squeeze.

Normally, I let Irene’s jabs pass like background noise. But with Julian sitting beside me, his hand in mine, and my blood boiling hotter than my oatmeal milk cappuccino, I wasn’t in the mood to stay quiet.

“I’m a visual merchandiser. And no, my job isn’t just dressing up mannequins, like you so charmingly phrased it,” I said evenly, even though my breath caught for half a second.

She tilted her head with a smug smile. “Oh? Then what is it?”

I leaned in, locking eyes. If she wanted a show, I’d give her one.

“I’m certified in personal color analysis. I know how to match skin tones with fabric palettes to make products pop. More importantly, I know how to turn a basic collection into something that looks expensive.”

Julian still hadn’t let go of my hand. Now his thumb was gently stroking the back of it. Like he could feel the storm brewing under my skin and wanted to help me steer through it.

“People do not shop on impulse,” I continued, “they shop because they want to see the best version of themselves. That’s why visual merchandisers matter.”

Irene let out a laugh that sounded like nails scraping across a polished windowpane. “Cute. It’s adorable how strongly you believe in your own short-lived fantasy.”

Oh, hell no.

I scanned her from overly straightened hair to the overpriced silk scarf wrapped around her neck. A scarf that, unfortunately, made her look like she was recovering from a low-grade blood transfusion.

“Well, if you understood anything about color theory, you’d know that champagne satin is a disaster on your cool, neutral skin tone,” I said with the softest smile I could fake. “But don’t worry, not everyone can tell the difference between classy and just trying too hard.”

And boom. The room went dead silent. Even the air in the room held its breath with me.

God, that felt amazing.

I turned to Julian, ready to whisper a thank you, but the second I saw his face, the words stuck in my throat.

The look in his eyes was way too tender for a man who was supposed to be fake dating me.

And my dumb little heart reacted like a freaking idiot.

No. No, no, no.

I took a deep breath, silently begging myself not to melt like a cliché.