Chapter 11: The Perfect Act

Isla POV

“You sure you’re actually dating him?” Irene asked, her voice sharp enough to match her winged eyeliner.

She’d spent the entire event eyeing Julian and me like we were the pre-show disaster to a circus she didn’t even pay for. Clearly hoping one of us would trip and give her something to gloat about for the rest of the year.

Her face was basically a walking billboard of judgment. It's as if she were born with a natural talent for weaponizing fake smiles.

“He’s a bit too old, isn’t he?” she added, one brow arched so high it was practically moonlighting as a ceiling fixture.

I nodded. Obviously, I was dating a man whose hotness had officially passed into hazardous territory for women with fully functioning nervous systems.

“And he’s your boss. You really think he’s not just playing around?”

God, I nearly toasted her. Literally. I almost raised my glass and gave a full standing ovation for how spectacularly Julian and I had sold the lie. If Irene was this pressed, it meant we were nailing the performance.

“I’m not breaking any rules,” I said smoothly, twirling the stem of my wineglass between my fingers.

She let out a soft snort and furrowed her brows as if she were about to slap me with a search warrant.

And newsflash, we weren’t even close. She married my brother and now thinks every decision I make has to go through her moral audit system.

“Aren’t you scared he’s just using you? That you’re all in, and he’s just killing time?”

Dear God, grant me the strength not to launch this glass at Irene’s Botox-free forehead.

“I’m an adult. So is he. We’re both single. What’s the issue?” I shrugged with peak indifference, just in time to catch Rachel nearly choking on her drink from holding back a laugh.

“Age gaps and social class are real problems,” Irene said, deadly serious.

“Please. Age is relative,” I shot back, folding my arms. “And social class, what does that even mean anymore?”

Oh, here we freaking go.

Irene and her obsession with status. Just like the time she threw a fit because I went shopping with Maya, my best friend. She practically begged Mom to give me a lecture about association and how it reflected poorly on the family.

Now she wanted to pull that card again?

“I think what Irene means,” Rachel chimed in, in that tone people use when pretending to be Switzerland but actually handing over the nukes, “is that people might talk. Since you know, you’re just an intern at Eleanor Rowe, and he’s...”

“My boss?” I deadpanned. “Oh no. The horror.”

“Exactly,” Viviane cut in: bless her and her energy saved aura. “And once Isla’s internship ends, there’s no conflict anymore. Problem solved.”

I flashed her a grateful smile and nearly offered a high five across the table.

Irene responded with another plastic-perfect smile. The kind that could fool strangers but not me. I’d seen her wear that exact smile right before ripping someone apart in a PTA meeting.

Then I understood why she suddenly transformed into Miss Congeniality.

My mom had entered the room. And just like that, Irene upgraded to her deluxe sanctimonious version.

“You’re still young, Isla.” Her voice suddenly softened with concern. “I just don’t want you to get your heart broken.”

I clicked my tongue. She froze, visibly offended that her fake kindness wasn’t being worshipped like gospel.

“She’s right. I don’t like Julian either.” Mom added, like a surprise death twist in a psychological thriller.

And just like that, Irene smiled like she’d just won Olympic gold in the meddling in other people’s lives event.

“Even if he’s the CMO, he’s still an employee. Preston Group doesn’t belong to him. He could lose his job anytime. There is no guarantee of your future with someone like him,” Mom said matter-of-factly.

In this family, future meant money, connections, and looking rich enough at charity galas to avoid being mistaken for hired help.

I glanced toward the living room. Julian was sitting with Dad and my brothers, listening to Ramon. Julian caught my gaze. He looked miserable.

I interrupted Irene's impending lecture. “I have to go. I'm leaving.”

I didn’t wait for Mom’s permission. Likewise, I turned on my heels and headed straight for Julian.

He stood up the moment I approached, like a man finally released from prison.

“Papa, we’ve got another appointment. Bye,” I said breezily.

Julian didn’t need a script. He was already shaking my father’s hand, flashing that polite British smile like he was born with it. Then he was right behind me.

I grabbed his hand, and we were out the door before anyone could object.

Outside, he picked up the pace. And I, in my stupid three-centimeter heels, had to jog practically just to keep up.

“Thank God,” Julian muttered under his breath the second we stepped onto the front porch. 

London’s midday air hit us like sweet freedom, an escape from the hellscape of that family gathering.

“Your dad invited me back next month,” he added, scowling. “Come up with something dramatic to explain our fake breakup, so I have a legitimate reason not to show my face again.”

I stopped dead in front of him, blocking the car door before he could reach for it.

“What changed your mind?”

Because last night, he shut me down so fast I almost caught whiplash. But this morning, he showed up in that smug little Armani polo, rocking a polite smile that made the entire Ansley family collectively swoon.

Julian opened the door without answering. “Did you drive here?”

I scoffed. “Don’t change the subject.”

He leaned against the car like he hadn’t just walked into a five-act family drama. “Let’s just say I wanted you to owe me.”

For a second, I just stood there, blinking. Processing.

He started the engine, and I scrambled into the passenger seat before he could pull off without me.

“Owe you?” I snapped, slamming the door. “And what exactly do you want as payment?”

Julian kept his eyes glued to the road like I wasn’t sitting right there, interrogating him.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, side-eyeing him dramatically. “Don’t tell me you want me to pay you with—” I left the sentence hanging, smirking like the brat I fully intended to be.

He gave me a sideways glance but didn’t bite.

“Do you want to make love to me, Daddy?” I whispered in the most exaggerated, barely holding back a laugh.

“It’s not funny,” he muttered.

I let myself laugh anyway. After two hours of emotional endurance sports with my family, this felt like oxygen.

“Hmm… Daddy, I’m scared that you’re mad,” I teased again, biting my lip with the fakest baby-doll smile I could muster.

Julian stopped at a red light and turned to face me. “Are you sure you’re part of that family?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re nothing like them.”

That shut me up. Because, yeah… I’ve always felt like the weird puzzle piece that never really fit. At home, they scrutinized my every move as if I were applying for sainthood.

“You give me headaches on the regular,” Julian added, shaking his head. “I know your dad’s a hotshot lawyer, but he’s not the only one in the world. And your brothers, just copy-paste versions of him. Zero personalities.”

I should’ve defended them. But I didn’t. I nodded instead.

The age gap between us meant I’d never really known my brothers. I was too young to spell my name when my brothers were already grown. To me, they’d always just been ambitious in tailored suits. Honestly, sometimes they felt more like firmware updates than actual people.

“Thank God you didn’t have to talk to my sister-in-law,” I shuddered.

Julian gave me a look. “I’m starting to see why you avoid them like the plague.”

“Exactly why I needed your help.” I smiled. “So, same time next month?”

He rolled his eyes. “Once is enough.”

“Please,” I said in my most obnoxiously sweet voice, mostly because I liked watching his face twitch when I did.

“No.”

I pouted. “You said no last night too. And look at you now.”

“I regret this already,” he muttered. But his lips twitched, and I knew he was lying.

I laughed again. Julian made this mess of a day actually feel light.

“Please, Daddy…”

He groaned, and oh, I was thriving.

“Come on, Julian. Be my fake boyfriend again next month.”

“Why don’t you get a real one?”

“Because I want you,” I said without thinking.

It was supposed to be a joke. But the second those words left my mouth, something shifted inside me.

Julian pulled into a restaurant lot and killed the engine. Then he turned to me and really looked at me.

“Are you serious?”

Just two words. That’s all it took to knock the wind out of my smug little sails.

“Isla, are you actually serious about being my girlfriend?”

My eyes widened. My heart went full rave mode, thumping like a bass drop in some underground club.

Julian reached out and cupped my face. His palm was warm and rough. A sharp contrast to the cold, untouchable persona he usually wore like armor.

“Here’s the problem,” he whispered. “I’m not dumb enough to fall for this game again. I already did once, hoped for more with you, and you walked away.”

His thumb brushed my cheek one last time before dropping his hand.

“So no. That’s my answer. So please stop.”

But if he really wanted me to stop, his touch wouldn’t have lingered like that. And he wouldn’t be staring at my lips like they had the power to undo him.

“What if I would rather not stop?” I whispered.

Julian didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened. His expression turned sharp, unreadable.

“Don’t poke the bear.”

“But Daddy, I want you.”

Still, he didn’t respond. Just pinned me with that intense gaze that could stop time and make me forget my name.

But what Julian didn’t know is that once I want something, I don’t stop until it’s mine.