Chapter 9: Rejection

Isla POV

I was trying my best to appear as a rational and fully functioning adult during the meeting.

But apparently, my brain, the same one that graduated cum laude and held the top performer title three quarters in a row, was too busy imagining Julian naked.

It kept getting worse every time he opened his mouth. That voice is deep. Like a seductive threat wrapped in a tailored suit.

He could be talking about Pacific-Asia expansion strategy, and I’d still be two seconds away from begging him to spank me with an NDA.

"Focus, Isla. You're at work, not starring in your adult rom-com. You’re not sixteen and starving for attention.”

But ever since that goddamn family party turned private soap opera, I’ve been spiraling.

Julian, the half-devil, half-sex god of a CMO, became my fake boyfriend in the blink of a disaster.

I still remember how he pulled me close when Dad showed up. The way his hand rested on the small of my back, like it belonged there. Like it knew every buried trauma and every wet dream I’d ever had.

Even my mom, who usually manages my life like she’s head of operations at my soul, went silent.

For two hours, I felt wanted. Like a woman someone would fight for.

And then he got into his car. No goodbye. Just the lingering scent of his cologne, and me standing there like a sucker.

Now I’m back in a meeting with him, trying not to stare while he discusses a multi-billion dollar project, like I’m not picturing him shirtless with that jawline pressed against my thighs.

Oh, God. He’s spinning the pen between his fingers. Why is that hot?

“Isla, you can do that, right?”

A voice cut straight through my fantasy.

I blink and turn to Nola. She was looking at me as if she expected me to save the company.

“Yes,” I blurted. And with absolutely no idea what I’d just agreed to.

Julian gave a small nod. Which made my heart thump like a goddamn bass drum.

For the rest of the meeting, I pretended to write. Pretended to understand anything at all.

All I actually wrote down was. “Do not masturbate to thoughts of your boss.”

When the meeting ended, Nola yanked me out of the room like a lawyer who’d just watched her client commit perjury.

“Send all your ID docs to the Eleanor Rowe Expansion Team,” she said, businesslike. “HR Global Assignment will start with your visa and residency permits. Legal will handle immigration compliance for China.”

I frowned. “Wait, what?”

“You have a visa already, right?”

I shook my head before my brain had a chance to catch up.

“Don’t worry. The Expansion Team will handle everything. You just need to get yourself and your stuff ready for China.”

... I'm sorry. Where?

“China?” I repeated, like a confused third grader learning Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore.

“Yep. I’ll loop you into an email with Suz; she’s the point of contact for the flagship store in Shanghai.”

I tried to swallow that casually, but my throat felt like it was being strangled by reality.

“Are you coming too?” I asked, praying for salvation.

“Nope,” she said, eyes glued to her phone. “I’ve got other commitments. That’s why you’re going.”

“And who else is going?” I asked, already bracing for it.

“Just Mr. Julian.”

I stopped walking. Dead in my tracks. “Julian? You mean me and him?”

“Exactly.” She finally looked at me. “Last-minute schedule. Other people are busy. You’re the only one available.”

If I’m the only one available, then the universe is drunk.

There’s no sane reality where I’m allowed unsupervised to travel to another country alone with a man I once had a one-night stand with and then blackmailed into being my fake boyfriend.

My brain was already playing a psychological thriller titled “How to Die With Your Self-Control Still Intact.”

“You just need to be at the grand opening,” Nola said, waving off my rising panic. “Talk to the local team; collect insights. You can handle it.”

The problem isn’t the job, Nola. The issue is Julian.

***

Eleanor Rowe HQ, London. Saturday night.

The kind of night that should’ve ended with prosecco and a face mask. Not full-on, cardiac-level panic.

I should’ve been in my apartment right now. Shoulders deep in the bubble bath, Nina Simone crooning in the background, every fall/winter sample I stared at all day, a distant memory.

Tonight, my life decided to audition as a tragicomedy.

My phone buzzed. Mom. Flashing across the screen like some cursed omen from my subconscious.

I answered with the enthusiasm of someone about to walk into a courtroom they forgot they were being sued in.

I gave Nola a tired wave and started walking toward the elevator, praying the call was just her usual complaints: runny gravy or the gardener misplacing the sacred lavender again.

Of course not.

“Don’t forget to bring Julian to brunch tomorrow.”

I almost slammed face-first into a glass wall.

“I’m sorry, brunch?” I repeated, because clearly the laws of logic had left the building.

“If he really is your boyfriend, you shouldn’t need reminding. It’s the Ansley family’s weekly tradition. We need to get to know him better,” she continued, and more terrifying than any horror soundtrack.

Absolutely. Involving my boss in my family's legal issues with high-society lawyers seems like a questionable choice.

I’m starting to think I need to fake a spiritual crisis and resign from the intern program before Julian finds out I’ve officially volunteered him as tribute.

Because brunch with the Ansleys isn’t brunch. It’s a social tribunal disguised as a luxury meal.

Sunday tradition, served with mimosas and generational pressure.

My father and his four golden-boy sons, aka walking corporate law wet dreams, will spend two hours talking legal strategy like it’s the Super Bowl.

Meanwhile, they will banish me to the wives’ table. A group that makes Desperate Housewives: Kensington Edition look like amateurs.

Let’s start with Irene, married to Ramon, the firstborn, heir apparent, and general embodiment of smug perfection. Irene is stunning and terrifying. The queen bee of brunch. Her words are like a luxurious fragrance: sharp, expensive, and subtly suffocating.

Then there’s Rachel, Andrew’s wife. A former opera singer whose current personality consists of one phrase “Irene said”. Rachel is not a threat; she's just a bit robotic.

Then, Sarah. She’s Liam’s wife and also my former high school tormentor. She used to bully scholarship students for wearing knockoffs. Now she does it in Louboutins, with a fancy last name.

I still don’t understand what my third brother sees in her. Maybe he has a fetish for cruelty wrapped in beige cashmere.

The only one I don’t actively fantasize about meeting across the brunch table is Viviane. She is Matteo’s wife and the only woman with a backbone.

She refused to quit her job to become another pretty face in our curated family portfolio. Since then, my mother’s treated her like a seasonal allergy she can’t medicate.

But I admire her. Honestly, Viviane is the only reason I’ve survived those Sunday torture sessions with a sliver of sanity intact.

“I’ll expect to see Julian tomorrow,” my mother said.

Click. Zero chance to say no.

I stood frozen in front of the elevator, as if someone had pressed pause on my entire nervous system.

Apparently, playing fake boyfriend at a family party wasn’t enough. Now she wanted proof.

She wanted Julian Wolfe seated at our family table, smiling like some damned polo-playing gentleman from Knightsbridge, while fielding weaponized questions from my brunch mafia.

Shit.

I ran my fingers through my hair, wishing I could turn back time to before I told those lies.

This was supposed to be a small lie. Now it was a snowball tumbling down Mount Doom, collecting every shred of my dignity along the way.

I exhaled sharply just as the elevator doors opened. And there he was.

Julian Wolfe.

Leaning against the elevator wall like a goddamn GQ centerfold. Gray shirt sleeves rolled up, hair perfectly tousled, that dangerous smirk nowhere in sight but fully implied.

And his eyes locked on mine. Like he could read every thought racing through my head.

I laughed. Not the cute, flirty kind. More like a full-blown panic attack disguised as carefree giggles.

Julian gave me a scrutinizing look, as if I were some strange creature he needed to scrutinize. His raised eyebrow and clenched jaw made it clear that this was not going to be a pleasant experience.

“You planning to just stand there, or are you coming in?” he asked.

I took a deep breath and stepped into the elevator.

“Sir, I mean, Boss.” I waved my hand around like I was swatting away the cloud of awkwardness hovering over me. “Whatever. The point is, I need a favor.”

I plastered on my most desperate version of a sweet smile and tried to look like I still had a shred of dignity.

His gaze was colder than the marble floors in the lobby of our painfully overpriced fashion company.

“No.”

That “no” slapped harder than an unlimited black card to the face.

“You don’t even know what I’m asking for,” I protested.

Julian slid his phone into his pocket and gave me a look that could probably cause internal bleeding. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.”

The elevator dinged softly as the doors slid open. And in the most movie-cliché way possible, he stepped out first without so much as a glance back.

I scrambled to chase after him. My heels clicked like a distress signal as I walked across the parking garage floor. His strides were long and mechanical, like a goddamn runway model. Meanwhile, I looked like a desperate fangirl chasing her idol through an airport.

“Julian, please.” I hated how desperate I sound. Running between rows of cars, I couldn’t afford even in my best dreams.

He didn’t answer. The London man had the ego of a Roman god and the emotional range of a stapler.

So I did the only thing left to do. I walked ahead of him and then turned around to face him, practically speed walking backward like a character from a romantic comedy. I almost slammed into a concrete pole, but thank God for my survival instincts.

“I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t totally, completely desperate.”

Julian stopped walking. His stupid, broad shoulders lifted slightly. “You need a fake boyfriend again?”

Checkmate.

My mouth opened. Words gone.

“Isla, I’m not interested in playing your pretend boyfriend again,” he said, voice flat.

And just like that, he got into his expensive sports car, the kind that could pay my rent for like five years.

But I wasn't the type to fold after one rejection. So yeah, I climbed in after him.

Julian turned toward me with that please get out expression, but I stayed planted.

“Just this once. Two hours. Brunch at my parents’ place.” I put my hands together like I was praying to the god of emotionally unavailable ex-boyfriends. “Please. I seriously don’t know what else to do.”

He didn't answer immediately. His eyes scanned my face as if he were trying to gauge the level of chaos for the day.

“You could just be honest,” he said eventually.

I shook my head. “Absolutely not.”

“Or accept your mom’s matchmaking efforts,” he said, calm and evil, like he was aiming for my mental breakdown on purpose.

“I’d rather swan dive into the Thames,” I muttered. “Wearing six-inch heels and a full face of makeup.”

My hand instinctively reached for his, and to my surprise, he didn’t immediately pull away.

“Please. I’m begging. This is the last time. After this, I'll tell my mom we broke up. I'm heartbroken. I might be a lesbian, whatever.”

He let out a long breath. That signature icy stare was back, sharp like the fabric scissors the design team guards with their lives.

Heart thudding in humiliation, I let go of his hand. “I'm sorry, Mr. Julian. Good evening.”

Then I got out of his car, more tragically than a breakup playlist on Spotify.

London’s night air was chilly. But not colder than the look he’d just given me.

He didn’t stop me. Didn’t say a single damn thing.

I guess it’s time to prepare mentally to meet the guy my mom is setting me up with. He's an Oxford grad who obeys all the rules. He's practically a living LinkedIn profile.

Fuck.

I’d rather date a scheduling app.