The world narrowed to the space between their lips. Julian's words, "Let's give them a show," echoed in Clara's mind, a flimsy rationalization for what was about to happen. She braced for a performance—a calculated, convincing press of lips meant for the watching eyes.
She was wrong.
The instant his mouth met hers, the entire ballroom, with its glittering chandeliers and swelling orchestra, ceased to exist. This was not a show. This was a confession.
The kiss was not gentle. It was a raw, desperate collision, fueled by weeks of unspoken tension and forbidden curiosity. His hand left her back to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking her skin as he deepened the kiss, tilting her head back. It was possessive, demanding, and utterly overwhelming. All the cool control he projected to the world melted away in a blaze of heat. A sound, half-surprise, half-surrender, escaped Clara's throat.
And she kissed him back.
Her hands came up to clutch at the lapels of his tuxedo, her carefully constructed defenses incinerated. She met his passion with her own, a silent acknowledgment of the dangerous current that had been humming between them from the very beginning. It was a kiss that tasted of champagne, defiance, and the terrifying, exhilarating thrill of a lie becoming true.
When they finally broke apart, gasping for air, the world came rushing back in a dizzying wave. The music had swelled to a crescendo, and the silence around them was filled with the sound of applause and delighted whispers. From across the floor, Clara could see Arthur Thorne, a deeply satisfied smile on his face. Their performance had been a resounding success. But as she looked into Julian's dark, dazed eyes, she knew it had been anything but a performance.
Panic seized them both at the same instant. Before anyone could approach, Julian's hand clamped around hers, his fingers lacing tightly with her own. "We're leaving," he bit out, and without another word, he pulled her through the throng of smiling onlookers, through the grand lobby, and out into the cool night air, leaving a wake of satisfied gossip behind them.
The ride back to the penthouse was a masterpiece of silent, screaming tension. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them dared to look at the other. Clara stared out the window at the blurred city lights, her lips still burning, her entire body humming with a strange, new energy. The contract was supposed to be a shield, a business arrangement to protect her from the complexities of a man like Julian. Now, it felt like a cage of a different kind, one where the bars were forged from her own traitorous feelings.
The next morning, the fragile truce they had built was gone, replaced by a thick, awkward awareness. Clara found Julian in the main living area, standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows, a tablet in his hand. His back was to her, but she could see the rigid set of his shoulders.
"It seems our 'show' was a hit," he said, without turning around. He angled the tablet so she could see the screen. It was the city's premier online gossip magazine. The headline, splashed across a large, dramatic photo of their kiss, read: THE THORNE TAMING: BILLIONAIRE CEO CAPTURED BY MYSTERY ARTIST.
Clara's stomach twisted. Seeing the moment immortalized in print made it feel both more real and more fraudulent.
"This is no longer just about my grandfather," Julian stated, finally turning to face her. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were intense. "We are now a public spectacle. Every move we make will be scrutinized. The narrative has to be airtight."
"So, what's the next scene in your play?" Clara asked, her voice sharper than she intended. "Do we go ring shopping for the paparazzi?"
"Something like that," he replied, ignoring her sarcasm. "We need to be seen in public again, doing something a normal, engaged couple would do. There's a charity polo match this weekend."
Clara imagined it: more people like Seraphina, more condescending smiles, another suffocating performance. She couldn't do it. Not after last night. The lines were too blurred, her feelings too raw. If she was going to survive the next six months, something had to change.
"No," she said, her voice firm.
Julian raised an eyebrow. "No? The contract is quite clear about public appearances."
"I'll make public appearances," she countered, taking a bold step forward. "But not just in your world. Not anymore. If this is going to be believable, if you want people to believe that you could fall for me... then you need to understand my world. Not the galas, not the auctions. My real world."
She held his gaze, her heart pounding with the audacity of what she was about to propose. She was flipping the script, taking back a sliver of control.
"Tomorrow," she said, her voice clear and unwavering. "Come to my gallery. No suit, no CEO persona, no agenda. Don't come as the man who owns my debt. Just… come and see. See what it is you supposedly fell in love with."
Julian stared at her, completely thrown. He had expected compliance, another pawn to move on his chessboard. He had not expected a challenge. He looked at the woman before him—the passionate, defiant artist who had mesmerized his grandfather, the woman whose kiss had shattered his legendary control, the fake fiancée who was demanding something real from him.
He looked at her, the woman who was supposed to be his simple, uncomplicated solution, and realized she was the most complicated, captivating problem he had ever faced. A long, silent moment passed between them.
"Alright," he said.