Chapter 32: Accompanying Julian
“Dinner tonight. Don’t embarrass me.”
Julian tossed the line over his shoulder and was gone.
Relief hit first. Then a pinch of guilt. Renewing the old apartment should’ve been nothing—but the thought of Julian knowing made her weirdly jumpy. As long as he didn’t ask, she wouldn’t explain. And dinner? Fine. She could sit, smile, and keep her head down.
“Master Julian asked a stylist to come fit you,” Aunt Zhang told her. “The bath is drawn.”
Cora showered fast, mind spinning. Why take me at all? We’re a contract on paper. If he needs a plus-one, half the company would trample each other for the spot. By the time she wrapped her hair in a towel, the stylist had arrived with a rolling rack of gowns.
“No need to fuss,” Cora said. “Just pick one.”
A voice answered from the doorway. “Tonight isn’t casual. You represent Watson.”
She turned. Julian was already dressed: hand-stitched black suit, crisp shirt, that quiet, devastating authority. The stylist held up a sleek black Chanel. He nodded. “That one.”
The dress slid on—and hung loose.
“Goodness, you’re tiny,” the stylist murmured. “This is their smallest. I’ll nip the waist—two minutes.”
Scissors snipped. The zipper area split for alteration. The stylist glanced around, realized she’d left her brand-matched threads downstairs, and winced. “Lady Cora, could you hold here for me? I’ll grab the kit.”
“Sure.” Cora reached back and pinched the open seam together, elbow twisted at an awkward angle.
Julian stepped forward without thinking. His hand replaced hers, steady and warm.
“Th—thanks,” she said, throat dry.
His gaze dipped to her throat. The skin there had flushed pink. Her ears—red as berries. From his height, the open seam barely shielded the line of her back, the shadowed curve at her bodice. Something in his eyes shifted.
She’s shy. The realization pleased him more than it should have. A stray lock was caught under the neckline; he smoothed it free with careful fingers. Her hair slid like silk through his hand.
Cora went rigid. What is he doing? The little, intimate gestures were dangerous; they felt like touchstones, not accidents.
“Mr. Watson, I— I can manage,” she blurted, stepping away.
His hand lost the fabric; the gown gaped for a breath, baring the clean sweep of her spine. He didn’t move, only watched, eyes darkening.
Heat climbed Cora’s neck. Why does it feel like there’s electricity in his fingertips? I never— not even with Matt… Mortified, she held the seam shut again.
“This isn’t the office,” he said, voice low. “Use my name.”
“Julian…” she managed.
“Jule.” The correction was soft, authoritative.
She faltered. Why that close? Was it rehearsal for tonight—wife in public, assistant at work? “Jule,” she tried again, the word feather-light. “I can stay up here with the stylist. There isn’t much room and—”
If she’d looked up, she would’ve seen how his expression changed. His name had been said a thousand ways by a thousand women. It had never sounded like that.
Footsteps pounded back up the stairs. The stylist burst in, breathless, Chanel-branded thread in hand. “So sorry! Each house has different stitching. I keep kits for the big ones.”
Julian was already turning away. “I’ll wait downstairs.”
He left quickly—almost like retreat.
Cora exhaled in a rush. The stylist worked fast; in minutes, the waist was snug, the zipper seamless, the dress a second skin. Then makeup: light foundation, a brush of color, a gloss to wake her mouth. “You’re the easiest canvas I’ve had,” the woman said, pleased. “Barely any product.”
Cora opened her eyes—and saw a stranger who looked a bit like her wedding-day reflection: polished, luminous, untouchable. The memory pinched.
“You don’t like it?” Panic rose in the stylist’s voice. “I can change—”
“It’s perfect,” Cora said quickly, layering on a smile. “You did beautifully. Thank you.”
Downstairs, the man who’d told her not to embarrass him was waiting to be seen with her. And for better or worse, the night—and whatever game he intended them to play—was about to begin.