The Thorne family dinner had been a victory—but Elara knew public victory was a different kind of war. Tonight was their first official "date," and she had mapped it with surgical precision: a quiet gallery opening, followed by a discreet charity auction. Controlled settings. Minimal risk. Maximum optics. Julian, however, had other plans. He was waiting at the gallery entrance, hands shoved in his pockets, grinning like a schoolboy who'd gotten away with something. "Lydia said you had the whole evening mapped out. I, uh… made a few adjustments." Before Elara could demand clarification, the night detonated in a barrage of flashbulbs. Reporters surged forward, hungry eyes and notepads ready. "Julian! Elara!" one shouted. "What a romantic evening! What brought you here tonight?" Julian didn't miss a beat. He draped an arm across her shoulders, his warmth seeping through the cream fabric of her blazer. "We're celebrating," he said smoothly, voice as rich as velvet. "After all the business, we needed a reminder of why we're doing this in the first place." Then he looked down at her—soft, conspiratorial, devastating. Elara's brain scrambled for protocol: mention art, inspiration, something safe. But before she could open her mouth, Julian's hand found hers. Their fingers slid together—warm, steady, shamelessly intimate. And then he leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed her ear. "You know," he whispered, "I've never seen a painting as beautiful as you in this light." Her composure fractured. A traitorous flutter rippled through her chest; heat climbed her throat. She wanted to scold him for his absurdity, but the cameras caught every angle, every blush, every heartbeat. And the worst part? The crowd loved it. They were a sensation. The rest of the gallery unfolded in a surreal haze of flashes and laughter. Julian turned solemn portraits and abstract canvases into running jokes—sad clowns, judgmental professors, one that looked suspiciously like his high school math teacher. Against her better judgment, Elara laughed. The sound startled her, bright and unguarded, as foreign to her as the gallery's gaudy modern art. For the first time in a very long time, she exhaled. Later, as the car pulled up outside, the cool night wrapped around them. Julian leaned casually against the railing, his tie slightly askew, that maddeningly earnest grin tugging at his mouth. "I told you," he said softly. "You just needed a different perspective." Elara studied him, annoyed at how much she noticed—the crooked tie, the warmth still lingering on her palm, the reckless ease of his smile. Against all reason, her logic faltered. Maybe Julian Thorne wasn't just a charming disaster.
Maybe he was a different kind of logic altogether.
A human one.