Rose hadn't laughed that easily in a long time. The clink of silverware against fine china, the soft murmur of Velluto Noire's elite guests, and Jonathan's unexpectedly witty banter made the dinner oddly comforting. He was sharp-tongued, smooth, and charming in the kind of way that didn't try too hard. Crafty? Yes. But refreshingly… not Julian.
And maybe that was why she let her guard down.
But then came the question.
"So, Rose," Jonathan leaned in slightly, his fingers wrapped around his wine glass, "are you seeing anyone… or maybe a secret boyfriend I should know about?"
The smile froze on her lips. Just like that, Julian's voice echoed in her head.
"You're mine."
Three times—she could count them. Three different moments when those possessive words left his mouth. Not a question. A declaration. She blinked, the memory of his intense gaze burning into her thoughts.
She opened her mouth to reply, but something behind Jonathan made her blood run cold.
A beast—no, Julian—strode into the restaurant with a storm in his eyes. His signature black suit clung to him like wrath itself. His jaw was clenched, his steps aggressive and deliberate. The way his gaze locked on hers? Pure fire.
Rose's heart began to pound.
Julian stopped at their table like a tempest that had found its eye. His glare drifted from Rose to Jonathan and back, face twisted in disbelief and a kind of simmering fury that screamed how dare you.
Jonathan tilted his head, unfazed. "Well, well, well," he said smoothly, clearly amused, "If it isn't the old man's golden boy."
Julian didn't acknowledge him. His eyes were fixed solely on Rose, voice low but deadly. "We're leaving."
"Excuse me?" Rose snapped, trying to control the tremble in her voice. "You can't just barge in here and—"
"I won't repeat myself."
"You're rude! This is a dinner—"
Before she could finish, Julian reached across the table, grabbed her wrist, and hauled her out of her seat. Gasps from nearby guests echoed through the room as he dragged her toward the exit.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she yelled, trying to free herself.
Outside, beneath the restaurant's dim lights, he rounded on her, voice sharp and laced with heat. "Didn't I tell you? You're mine. Mine, and mine alone!"
That did it.
She jerked her hand from his grip, eyes blazing now. "Yours?! Just because we had one night doesn't mean I belong to you! You don't get to claim me, Julian! Who even asks a woman out like that?"
"You think some roses and a necklace are enough? You think you own me now?"
He said nothing, but his nostrils flared, his fists clenched.
"And for the record," she hissed, her voice shaking, "I can do what I want—with whoever I want."
And just like that, in a moment of reckless, chaotic rage, she turned to the stunned bodyguard beside them… and kissed him full on the lips.
Julian didn't hesitate.
With a furious growl, he yanked her off the ground and tossed her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.
The bodyguard flinched under Julian's death stare and, wisely, wiped his lips with a napkin like he was removing a cursed spell.
Rose shrieked and beat at Julian's back. "Put me down! Julian, you caveman!"
Spectators gawked, but Julian didn't care. He stormed toward the car, shoved her inside, and slammed the door. The driver gave a nervous glance through the rearview mirror.
"Drive," Julian barked.
The car was chaos. Rose yelling. Julian fuming. The driver? Praying for peace and possibly a new job.
The car pulled up to a sleek building that scraped the night sky. Julian got out, threw open her door, and swept her up again. Rose kicked and struggled, but he didn't budge. She cursed him all the way to the penthouse.
Once inside, he marched her straight to the bedroom and dropped her onto the bed.
"You're a maniac!" she hissed, sitting up.
Julian tore off his tie and flung it to the floor. Buttons popped as he unfastened his shirt, every movement tight with frustration.
Rose's breath hitched. He was angry. Wet. Disheveled. But he looked sinfully good. She hated that it still affected her.
Without another word, he vanished into the shower.
Left alone, Rose bolted for the door. Locked. Of course. She tried a code. Nothing. It was hopeless. Eventually, she sank onto the couch, glaring at a nearby vase of flowers like it had personally offended her.
Then the bathroom door opened.
Julian stood in front of her, towel slung low on his hips, water dripping from his hair down his sculpted chest. His skin glistened, and steam wafted behind him like he'd just stepped out of some forbidden dream.
Rose's eyes betrayed her. They traveled—slowly—from the droplets on his chest down to the firm ridges of his stomach, and lower—
She snapped out of it with a gasp, turning red. "C-Can you go put some clothes on, please?!"
Julian smirked. "Why? Haven't you seen it all before?"
Her face burned.
"Go take your shower," he said, suddenly cold again. "Make sure you wash your lips. Thoroughly."
With a huff, she stormed into the bathroom. There were no feminine products. Of course. His voice came again from outside the door, casual and annoyed. "Use mine. I'll get you yours later."
She rolled her eyes. What's the point? I'm not staying.
After showering, she stared at the dinner dress clinging to her damp skin. No way she was wearing that again. She tiptoed to Julian's wardrobe and found a sea of suits and crisp shirts.
Definitely a suit guy. Not a T-shirt in sight.
She pulled out a long white shirt and slipped it on. It hung down past her knees, swallowing her frame. Cute, she had to admit.
Her undergarments? Still wet. She stepped onto the balcony, hung them on the railing, and inhaled the night air, her heart still racing.
Back inside, the scent of food wafted through the apartment. Her stomach betrayed her—growling, even though she'd eaten earlier.
She padded to the kitchen and froze.
Julian stood at the stove, sleeves rolled, focused, precise, in complete control. Seeing him like this—calm, domestic, cooking—was like watching a lion gently arrange flowers. It didn't fit, and yet, it was somehow the most captivating thing she'd seen all night.
"You cook?" she blurted.
He didn't look up. "Food's almost ready."
"I already had dinner. Which you interrupted," she reminded him, folding her arms.
He glanced at her—just once—with a look that said don't test me.
Still, the smell made her mouth water. She hated him. She really did. And yet… sitting there in his shirt, with his scent all over her, watching him cook like it was second nature?