Julian didn't ask me what to wear to the Viktor and Rolf show; he sent a stylist.
The dress was a lethal piece of architecture: midnight black velvet, custom-designed to look simple, yet cut with daring asymmetry. It featured a single, high slit that revealed the entire length of my left leg and a deep V-neck that plunged precariously low. The fabric was heavy, clinging to my curves and highlighting my figure-my waist, my hips, my everything-in a way that was undeniably expensive and overtly sexual.
"You look like a declaration of war," Julian murmured, appearing behind me as I finished clipping my diamond earrings.
We were in the private residence Julian had temporarily commandeered-a stark, modernist house overlooking Hyde Park.
"Isn't that the point?" I countered, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "We're staging a hostile takeover, not a debutante ball."
He stepped closer, placing his large, warm hands on my shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive spot near my collarbone. His touch was proprietary, dangerous. I watched my reflection-the Ice Queen and the Monster, a perfect, terrifying match.
"The goal is simple," he instructed, his voice low. "Don't just look like you're mine, Isolde. Look like you want to be mine. Look like I broke you, and you loved every second of it. The public needs to believe the passion is real, or they won't believe the merger."
He released me, then offered his arm.
The moment we stepped onto the red carpet at the Fashion Week venue, the flashbulbs exploded. It was a physical assault of light and noise.
I slipped naturally into my role. A cool smile, the perfect angle for the cameras. But Julian was the show.
He didn't smile. He looked at the cameras like they were a threat. He kept his hand tightly clamped around my waist-not guiding, but anchoring me. Every step we took was a public demonstration of his brute force.
Then, Harrison appeared. Flanked by reporters, he tried to rush us.
"Isolde, darling! What is the meaning of this? You know this is highly irregular! You are contractually obligated to the Thorne Corporation!"
Julian stopped, turning slowly. The sudden silence that fell over the press pack was deafening.
Julian didn't speak to Harrison. He spoke to me, his voice carrying just enough to be picked up by the nearest microphones.
"You're trembling," he whispered, leaning down. He brought his head close to mine, his lips brushing my earlobe, a gesture so intimate and suggestive it made my core clench. "Does my brother scare you, Isolde?"
"He bores me," I whispered back, playing my part.
Julian smirked-a genuine, wolfish expression of satisfaction. He leaned away, looked straight at Harrison, and then, slowly, deliberately, he bent his head and pressed his lips to my neck, right over my pulse point. He lingered, tasting my skin. The cameras went ballistic.
It was an act of raw, public possession. It was not a kiss; it was a brand.
"Get out of my sight, brother," Julian told Harrison, his voice cold as liquid nitrogen. "I'm busy."
Harrison looked destroyed. He stood there, sputtering, as Julian steered me, hip-to-hip, into the velvet ropes and the inner sanctum of the show
