Chapter 18
My heart skipped when Julian kissed me that night. For one second, I let myself feel it–the warmth, the dizzying flood of emotions, the way his lips moved like he meant every word he’c
said.
But then… I remembered her.
The woman from his office. The one who leaned in, lips barely an inch from his.
I pushed him away, breath catching. “No. You don’t get to say things like that to me after that
woman.”
He looked stunned. “What woman?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know.” My voice cracked as I took a step back. “The woman who was about to kiss you in your office. I saw it. I saw everything.”
Julian frowned, the confusion in his eyes slowly giving way to understanding. “You mean Camille?”
“I don’t care what her name is.”
“She’s my ex,” he said quickly, firmly. “She showed up out of nowhere. She wanted me back, yes- but I told her no. I’ve told her no more than once. There’s nothing between us. Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I echoed bitterly. “Then explain why she looked like she belonged there. Like you’ve done this before.”
He stepped forward. “Because I have. Before. Not now. Not with her. Alicia, that door’s been closed for a long time.”
But I wasn’t just hearing Julian. I was hearing Denver. Seeing Patricia in my head. Feeling the sting of every lie, every betrayal, every moment I was told I wasn’t enough.
I shook my head. “I like you, Julian. I really do. But I’m not stepping into that past again. I can’t.”
He reached for me again, slower this time. “Alicia-”
“No,” I whispered, voice breaking. “You should go.”
I shut the door, hands trembling. And when the latch clicked, I slid down to the floor and cried.
I cried like I hadn’t in years. Because for the first time since Denver, I’d let someone in–and I was terrified I’d made the same mistake again.
I thought he’d give up. Most men would have.
But not Julian.
The next morning, there were flowers on my doorstep. Simple daisies. No note.
The day after, he brought lunch to the gallery–not to speak, just left it with the receptionist.
When I didn’t answer his texts, he sent voice messages instead. Calm. Sincere.
“Alicia, I meant what I said. There’s no one else. I’ll wait as long as you need.”
I tried not to listen. But I kept the messages anyway.
By the end of the week, I was exhausted from pretending not to feel anything. I buried myself in work, but even that didn’t help–because one of the gallery’s biggest clients had specifically
Chapter 12
2:58 pm D
requested me to lead the upcoming exhibit.
I couldn’t say no.
I was back at the office by Monday, keeping my head low and avoiding Julian’s gaze. But the moment I entered the gallery’s conference room, there he was–leaning against the window, arms crossed, like he’d been waiting.
“You came,” he said softly.
“Don’t read into it,” I replied, sliding into the chair across from him. “This is about work.”
He only smiled. “I’ll take what I can get.”
That afternoon, we reviewed layouts, discussed themes, and even debated color palettes like the professionals we were supposed to be. I kept my tone flat, my body stiff. But then he brought me a cup of chamomile tea–no sugar, just how I like it–and whispered, “Try not to hate me so
much.”
It took everything in me not to smile.
I’d almost forgotten how easy it was to be around him before all this.
Still, after the meeting, I cornered him outside his office.
“We need to stop.”
He blinked. “Stop?”
“This… fake relationship. Your grandfather. The charade. We should come clean and end it.”
For a moment, I saw panic flicker in his eyes.
But then he stepped closer.
“No,” he said. “We’re not doing that.”
“Julian…”
He grabbed both my hands, voice steady. “We’re not ending it–because it’s not fake to me anymore. Alicia, we want each other. We don’t have to pretend.”
And before I could process it, he leaned in and kissed me again.
It wasn’t rushed or desperate–it was full of conviction. Like he knew he was fighting for something real this time.
My knees went weak.
But then-
“Miss Alicia Montero!”
The voice crashed through the moment like thunder.
I turned.
Down the corridor, a group of security was arguing with reception. And at the center of the commotion stood a woman in a navy–blue coat, hair pinned, lips pursed tightly in outrage. My mother.
Paula Montero.
“Miss Montero,” one guard called. “She says she’s your mother and demands to speak with you.”
My heart slammed against my chest.
Julian pulled back, confused. “That’s your mother-?”
