LAUREN'S POV
Surviving the night after I managed to escape Julian's suspicion was one thing; surviving the sunlight was another.
Julian demanded I accompany him to a high-society charity brunch the next morning. It was an elite shark tank, a place where the city's wealthiest predators gathered to smile for the cameras while plotting each other's ruin over mimosas.
I sat stiffly beside Julian in the back of his armored Maybach. The hatred between us was a living, breathing entity filling the car.
The air was so tensed it felt like trying to inhale water. He stared at his phone, his jaw locked in that permanent, harsh line of his, but I could feel his hyper-awareness of my every breath. It made my skin prickle. I hated him. I hated the way he took up so much space, the way his dark, tailored suit screamed of blood money, and the arrogant, cold way he treated me like dirt beneath his expensive shoes.
"You aren't wearing it," he noted suddenly, his cold voice slicing through the heavy silence. His eyes flicked toward my neck, dark and assessing.
"Wearing what?" I asked, my pulse spiking as I gripped the edges of my clutch—Serena's clutch.
"That cloying, suffocating floral perfume you bathe in," he said, leaning into my space.
The sudden proximity was jarring. His broad shoulders blocked out the light from the tinted windows. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, inhaling deeply near the crook of my neck. My breath caught in my throat.
"You smell like... vanilla. And rain," he murmured, his voice dropping. "It's different."
It was my perfume. I didn't feel comfortable using another person's perfume so I brought mine with me.
"I decided to change it up," I managed to say, my voice trembling slightly as his nose brushed my collarbone. The contact sent a dangerous, electric jolt straight down my spine. I hated the way my body reacted to him. I loathed him with every fiber of my being, yet my heart was hammering against my ribs.
He opened his eyes, staring directly into mine with a heavy, heated intensity that made my thighs clench involuntarily. For a second, the pure contempt in his gaze vanished, replaced by a dark, hungry curiosity that terrified me even more.
"Keep it," he ordered softly, his eyes dropping to my lips. "I hate the other one."
Before I could formulate a venomous reply, the Maybach eased to a halt in front of a sprawling, glass-fronted hotel. The flashing lights of paparazzi instantly assaulted the windows.
Julian's demeanor shifted instantly. The dark, probing man from the backseat vanished, replaced by the untouchable, ruthless billionaire. He stepped out of the car and offered me his hand. I didn't want to take it. I wanted to slap it away, but the memory of my parents' threats echoed in my mind. Do not ruin this, Lauren.
I placed my hand in his. His long, calloused fingers wrapped around mine, his grip tight and punishing. It wasn't an act of affection; it was a shackle.
"Smile for the cameras, darling," he whispered harshly in my ear as we walked up the red carpet. "Try to pretend you aren't the miserable, conniving snake I know you are."
"Only if you pretend you aren't a monster," I whispered back through a bright, fake smile, my nails digging into his palm.
Julian's hand tightened around my waist, his thumb pressing hard into the soft flesh of my hip. A thrilling shock of adrenaline rushed through my veins. He didn't reprimand me. Instead, a low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. It made my stomach flip in a way that disgusted me.
Once inside the grand ballroom, the suffocating atmosphere of the elite consumed us. I was forced to stand by his side as he navigated the room, shaking hands with corrupt politicians and rival businessmen. I played my part, nodding and smiling, perfectly mimicking the poised, empty shell my sister always presented to the world. But the entire time, I could feel Julian's eyes cutting into the side of my head. He was watching me. Studying me.
After an hour of playing the dutiful wife, I felt suffocated. I needed air. I needed to escape the intoxicating scent of Julian's cologne and the terrifying heat radiating from his massive body.
"I need to use the restroom," I muttered, pulling my arm free from his grasp.
Julian didn't look at me, but his jaw tightened. "Don't take long. We have a photo op in ten minutes."
I turned on my heel and walked away, eager to put as much distance between us as possible. But my relief was short-lived.
When I rounded the corner toward the quiet corridor leading to the restrooms, my mother was there.
Tamara Vance stepped out from behind a marble pillar and caught my arm, her nails digging viciously into my skin. The sudden, sharp pain made me gasp.
"You look like a cheap whore," she hissed into my ear, her grip bruising me as she yanked me out of sight of the main ballroom. Her eyes were wide, manic, and filled with the same disgust she had looked at me with my entire life. "Julian's right-hand man is watching you. You're acting too quiet. Serena commands a room, she doesn't hide in corners! Smile, Lauren, or I swear to God I will lock you in a basement."
The childhood terror flared up, freezing my blood. She was twisting the skin of my forearm, her expensive rings digging into my flesh. I opened my mouth to defend myself, to tell her to go to hell, but a dark shadow fell over us.
"Get your hands off my wife."
The voice was pure, lethal ice.
My mother released me instantly, her face draining of color. She stumbled back, her hands shaking as Julian stepped out of the shadows. His expression was murderous. He didn't even look at her; his pitch-black eyes were locked on my bruised arm.
He stepped forward, pulling me firmly behind his broad back.
"Julian," Tamara stammered, her voice high-pitched and trembling. "I—I was just fixing Serena's dress. We were just having a mother-daughter chat."
"I don't care what you were doing," Julian said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet register. "If you ever lay a hand on her again, Tamara, I will personally see to it that you and Richardson lose everything you own. And then, I will break your fingers. Are we clear?"
Tamara looked like she was going to faint. She nodded frantically, her perfectly manicured facade entirely shattered. "Crystal clear, Julian. I'm sorry. I—I'll go."
She scurried away like a frightened rat, leaving me standing behind the towering wall of muscle that was Julian Cross. My heart was pounding against my ribs. My mother had abused me for twenty-three years, and it only took Julian five seconds to make her run in terror.
Julian turned around slowly. His dark eyes swept over me, landing on the red crescent marks my mother's nails had left on my arm. A muscle feathered in his tight jaw.
"Since when does your mother speak to you like a stray dog?" he demanded, his voice filled with a dangerous mix of anger and confusion. "You two are usually thick as thieves, plotting how to spend my money."
Panic gripped my throat. I had slipped.
Serena was the golden child; Tamara worshipped her. I had to fix this, fast.
"We... we had a disagreement," I lied, lifting my chin and glaring at him, using my hatred for him to mask my fear. "Not that it's any of your business."
Julian stepped closer, completely ignoring my hostility. He crowded me against the cool marble wall of the corridor, his massive frame boxing me in. He reached out and gently gripped my injured arm. His thumb brushed over the angry red marks.
"Don't touch me," I spat, trying to yank my arm away.
His grip tightened, unyielding. "Stop fighting me for one damn second," he commanded roughly. He leaned in, his face mere inches from mine. "I don't care what kind of twisted game you and your mother are playing today. But you are my wife. No one touches what belongs to me. Do you understand?"
"I don't belong to you," I hissed, my chest heaving as I stared into his stormy eyes. "I hate you."
"The feeling is mutual, darling," he whispered back, his gaze dropping to my lips again. The hatred in his voice was thick, but his eyes told a completely different story. They were dark, dilated, and consumed with a fiery, unnatural heat.
We stood there in the dimly lit hallway, the sounds of the gala muffled in the distance.
The air between us was charged, filled with venom and a raw, primal chemistry that I couldn't escape. I hated him for his arrogance, for his control, for the dark world he ruled. But as his thumb slowly stroked the inside of my wrist in a caressing manner, right over my racing pulse, I realized with a wave of terror that my body didn't care about my hatred at all.
"Let's go," he suddenly growled, dropping my arm as if I had burned him. He turned away, adjusting his cuffs. "The photographers are waiting."
I took a shaky breath, smoothing down my dress, and followed the monster back into the light.