Chapter14 Here goes nothing
Chloe
Chloe
"Professional." I echoed, relief and disappointment warring. "Got it."
"But tonight—" His voice dropped, intimate. "Tonight you're mine again."
Heat flooded my cheeks. "Julian—"
"See you at home."
The call ended. We took separate cars that morning to keep up the charade.
I stared at the phone, heart hammering.
What was I getting into?
---
The Rolls pulled up to Astor Capital's gleaming tower in Century City at exactly 7:50 a.m. I stepped out in a black Prada suit Julian's staff had somehow acquired—tailored perfectly, probably worth more than my old monthly rent.
Employees streamed past, designer briefcases and confident strides. I squared my shoulders, channeling every ounce of fake-it-till-you-make-it energy.
Julian was waiting by the entrance, devastatingly sharp in charcoal Tom Ford.
Our eyes met. His flickered with heat before cooling to professional distance.
"Ms. Harrison." He extended a hand, formal.
"Mr. Astor." I shook it, ignoring the spark when our palms touched.
He leaned in, voice low enough that only I could hear: "You look incredible. But in the office, we're strangers. Understood?"
I nodded, throat tight.
He released my hand, stepping back. "Rachel will show you around. Work hard."
Then he was gone, striding toward the executive elevators. I watched him disappear, feeling oddly bereft.
Strangers. Right.
---
Rachel Chen, my new supervisor, was everything I had hoped for—sharp, efficient, no-nonsense. Mid-thirties, MBA from Wharton, zero tolerance for bullshit.
"Welcome to Astor Capital." She shook my hand firmly. "Heard you nailed the interview. Impressive, considering the rejection rate."
"Thank you." I followed her through open-plan offices—glass partitions, minimalist desks, the hum of concentrated work.
"Your role: financial modeling, industry research, supporting senior analysts." Rachel gestured to my cubicle—small but private, overlooking the city. "First task: review these project reports. Team meeting at two."
I settled in, booting up the computer. The old laptop with its Goldman Sachs sticker mocked me from my bag. I shoved it aside.
New start. Clean slate.
The morning blurred—spreadsheets, market analyses, coffee that didn't taste like burnt regret.
Around noon, my phone buzzed: Julian.
> Lunch?
I glanced around. Rachel was in a meeting. The floor was half-empty.
> Company cafeteria. Salad.
> Eat more. You need energy.
I smiled despite myself.
> Yes, boss.
Three dots appeared, then vanished. I imagined him smirking in his corner office, twelve floors above.
The afternoon team meeting was brutal—Rachel grilling analysts on portfolio performance, market trends, risk assessments. I took notes, absorbing the intensity.
"Harrison." Rachel's gaze pinned me. "Your take on the tech sector volatility?"
Everyone turned. I swallowed, mind racing. "Short-term correction driven by interest rate fears. But fundamentals remain strong—cloud adoption, AI integration. Long-term buy opportunity."
Rachel nodded, almost approving. "Good. Do a deeper dive. Report by Friday."
Relief flooded through me. I hadn't screwed up.
After the meeting, a colleague—James, mid-twenties, Stanford MBA—sidled over. "Nice analysis. You from Goldman?"
"Yeah." I kept it brief.
"Heard they're a shitshow. Toxic culture." He grimaced. "Astor Capital's different. Cutthroat, sure, but fair."
Fair. The word felt foreign. At Goldman, fair had meant survival of the most compliant.
"Good to know." I gathered my notes.
James hesitated. "Some of us grab drinks Fridays. You should come."
"Maybe." I smiled politely, not committing.
His eyes lingered—friendly, but with an edge of interest. I pretended not to notice.
At six, my phone buzzed: Julian.
> Downstairs. Taking you shopping.
I frowned.
> Shopping? For what?
> Dinner with my grandmother tonight. You need a dress.
My stomach dropped. Grandmother. The matriarch. The woman who had orchestrated this whole marriage.
> Can't we reschedule?
> No. She's expecting us at seven.
Shit.
I grabbed my bag, heading for the elevator. My hands shook slightly. Meeting Julian's family felt too real, too permanent.
The Rolls idled at the curb. Julian was inside, jacket off, tie loosened. He looked up as I slid in, eyes sweeping over me.
"Nervous?" he asked.
"Terrified." I admitted.
He took my hand, thumb brushing my knuckles. "Don't be. She'll love you."
"Or she'll think I'm a gold-digger who trapped you."
His jaw tightened. "She knows the truth. About the deal, your mother, everything."
I froze. "You told her?"
"I don't lie to my grandmother." His gaze was steady. "She respects honesty. And she'll respect you."
The car glided toward Rodeo Drive. I stared out the window, pulse hammering.
Please don't let me screw this up.
Dior's flagship store gleamed like a jewel box—crystal chandeliers, marble floors, sales associates in crisp black.
A woman rushed over as we entered. "Mr. Astor! Welcome back."
"Sophia." Julian nodded. "My wife needs an evening dress. Something elegant but understated."
My wife. The words sent a thrill through me.
Sophia's eyes widened fractionally before professionalism kicked in. "Of course. Right this way."
She led us to a private fitting room, racks of gowns already prepared. Silk, satin, lace—each more expensive than my old car.
I touched a navy blue dress, checking the tag. Fifteen thousand dollars. I flinched.
"Try it on." Julian's voice was low, close to my ear.
"It's too much—"
"You're Mrs. Astor." His hand settled on my lower back, possessive. "Nothing's too much."
Sophia handed me the dress. I retreated behind a curtain, pulse racing.
The silk whispered over my skin, cool and luxurious. It fit perfectly—hugging my waist, skimming my hips, the silk perfectly concealing the scar on my left side.
I stepped out. Julian went still, eyes darkening.
"That one." His voice roughened. "We'll take it."
"But—"
"And the shoes. The necklace." He gestured to Sophia, who was already pulling a diamond pendant and Manolo Blahniks.
I stared at the growing pile. "Julian, this is insane—"
He cupped my chin, tilting my face up. "Let me do this. Please."
The vulnerability in his eyes undid me. I nodded.
Sophia rang up the total: sixty-eight thousand dollars. Julian didn't blink, swiping his black card.
I watched, numb. This was my life now. Casual extravagance. No price tags.
How had I gotten here?
We were heading for the exit when I froze.
Two women stood near the entrance—one in white Chanel, the other in beige. Blonde, poised, dripping wealth.
Mia. And Evelyn.
My heart stopped.
Mia's gaze swept the store, landing on Julian. Her eyes widened, lips parting. She nudged Evelyn, whispering.
I shrank back, but Julian's hand tightened on mine.
"Breathe." He murmured. "They don't recognize you."
He was right. I was in a fifteen-thousand-dollar dress, hair styled, makeup flawless. Not the two-hundred-pound girl they had tormented.
But Mia was staring at Julian now, hunger and calculation in her eyes. She started toward us.
"Let's go." I whispered urgently.
Julian nodded, steering me out. The Rolls was waiting. We slipped inside just as Mia reached the sidewalk, craning her neck.
I slumped against the seat, shaking.
"You okay?" Julian's hand found mine again.
"She looked at you like—" I couldn't finish.
"Like prey." His voice was ice. "She doesn't know who I am. And when she finds out—" His smile was cruel. "She'll regret everything."
The car wound up into the Hollywood Hills, stopping at a sprawling estate. Manicured lawns, marble fountains, a mansion that screamed old money.
"This is your grandmother's house?" I breathed.
"One of them." Julian helped me out, adjusting my necklace with gentle fingers. "Ready?"
No. But I nodded anyway.
We walked toward the entrance. A woman stood in the doorway—eighty-ish, elegant in emerald Chanel, pearls at her throat. Her eyes were sharp, assessing.
Grandmother Matilda Astor.
Julian squeezed my hand. "Remember. Just be yourself."
I straightened my spine, meeting her gaze.
Here went nothing.