POV: Julian Black
Sunday brunch at the Black estate was a ritual. Not a pleasant one—more like a performance. The table was always set with precision: white linen, polished silver, and a centerpiece of fresh orchids that looked too perfect to be real. Just like everything else in this house.
I arrived late. On purpose.
My mother glanced up from her mimosa, lips pursed. My father didn't look up at all—he was too busy scrolling through stock updates on his tablet.
"You're late," my mother said.
"I'm consistent," I replied, sliding into the seat across from her.
The server poured me coffee. I didn't ask for it. I never did. They just knew.
"You were in the papers again," she said, tapping her manicured nail against the folded tabloid beside her plate. My face was on the cover, mid-stride, sunglasses on, Rachel clinging to my arm like a ghost.
"Was I smiling?" I asked.
"Julian," my father said, finally looking up. "This isn't a joke."
"No," I said. "It's a headline."
My mother sighed. "You're thirty next year."
"Still time to ruin a few more lives before I settle down."
She didn't laugh. She never did when I joked about relationships. To her, love was a legacy. Marriage was a merger. And I was the heir who refused to sign the contract.
"You need stability," she said. "Someone who grounds you."
"I have a nightclub," I said. "It's very grounding. Especially after three tequila shots."
My father set down his tablet. "We're serious, Julian. You've had your fun. It's time to think about the future."
I leaned back in my chair, watching the steam rise from my untouched coffee. The future. That word always felt like a threat.
"I'm not broken," I said quietly. "I just don't want what you want."
My mother's expression softened, but only slightly. "You don't have to be broken to be lost."
---
After brunch, I wandered into the garden. It was too perfect—hedges trimmed like they were afraid to grow, roses arranged like they were auditioning for a catalog. I hated it.
I sat on the stone bench where I used to sneak cigarettes as a teenager. Back then, I thought rebellion was a phase. Now I knew it was a lifestyle.
I pulled out my phone. A dozen missed calls. Rachel. Porter. A few journalists. I ignored them all.
I opened my gallery instead. Scrolled past party photos, club launches, red carpet shots. All smiles. All fake.
There was one photo I paused on. A candid shot from last year—me laughing with Porter at some rooftop event. I didn't remember what was funny. I didn't remember laughing.
I stared at it for a long time.
---
That night, I went back to Velvet Pulse. My club. My kingdom. The music was loud, the drinks were strong, and the people were beautiful. It was everything I'd built to escape everything I couldn't fix.
I stood at the VIP balcony, watching the crowd move like a living organism. Lights pulsed. Bodies swayed. And I felt nothing.
Until I saw her.
She walked in wearing red. Not just a dress—a statement. Her hair was loose, her eyes unreadable. She didn't look around like she was impressed. She looked around like she was bored.
I didn't know her name.
But I knew trouble when I saw it.
And trouble had never looked so tempting.