Chapter 18

The elevator doors slide shut, trapping me inside with the last person on earth I want to breathe the same air as.

The air feels too tight, too heavy, like it’s pressing against my skin. I press myself into the corner of the elevator like maybe if I become one with the wall, I can disappear entirely.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Axton in a black suit that looks criminal on him, like he should be arrested just for existing. His tie is gone, top buttons undone and his sleeves rolled up.

His jaw ticks, his hand flexes, and then, because God loves to humiliate me, he rolls his eyes at me. Full-on, dramatic, slow-motion eye-roll like I’m a particularly stupid pigeon that wandered into his penthouse.

I clench my jaw so hard my teeth might snap. Oh, I’m sorry, sir, am I the villain for revealing your fiancée’s secret double life?

I was minding my damn business when your Dollar Store fiancée decided to wreck both our lives.

And yet here I am, guilt curdling low in my stomach, while I’m simultaneously plotting how to dramatically faint in this elevator and sue him for emotional damages.

The elevator feels like it’s moving at the pace of a dying sloth. Axton doesn’t say anything, and neither do I, because if I open my mouth, I will either scream, sob, or confess to crimes I haven’t committed yet. Instead, I fiddle with the hem of my silk dress, pretending to study the carpet like it holds the answers to all my terrible life decisions.

The ding of the elevator almost makes me sob in relief. Axton steps out first, stiff and furious and somehow hotter for it, and I nearly trip in my heels trying to follow at a safe, non-stalker distance.

The rooftop is gorgeous, all fairy lights and candlelit tables, the London skyline glittering like spilled diamonds in the distance.

Waiters in crisp white shirts dart between tables, delivering trays of champagne and seafood towers to people who look like they haven’t worried about a single thing their entire lives.

A young waiter spots me immediately, smiling with terrifying enthusiasm.

“Miss Montgomery? Right this way, please.”

I follow him across the rooftop on shaky legs, only to come to a screeching, internal halt when I realize where he’s leading me.

My table.

Is directly.

Opposite.

His.

Fuck my life.

I catch sight of Axton settling in at a table across the terrace, barely twenty feet away. I should look away, I should, but my eyes betray me.

I see him. I see the woman he hugs, tall, blonde, elegant in a way that makes my dress feel scandalous instead of chic.

The waiter clears his throat and gestures to my table, and I snap out of it, flashing a brittle smile and sliding into my chair.

A cool breeze kisses my skin, and for a second, I remember that I'm a bad bitch and I look like I just walked off a magazine cover.

And there, like an angel sent by the universe, is Julian.

All plaid pants and too much jewelry, grinning at me like we’re about to rob the place.

Bless him.

“God, you look like a damn movie star,” he says, dropping into the seat across from me with zero decorum.

Before I can respond, he’s pulling out his camera, adjusting the lens, already fussing over the lighting, and practically doing cartwheels to get the perfect shot.

I lean into it.

I tilt my face toward the fairy lights, let the champagne glass dangle carelessly from my fingers, I pop my leg just right, letting the slit in my dress flash dangerously high. I toss my hair like I’m in a shampoo commercial.

I feel beautiful.

No, I feel dangerous.

Every hair on the back of my neck stands up.

I can feel the weight of Axton's stare, heavy and unrelenting. But I don’t look.

Instead, I sip my champagne and let Julian order more appetizers and talk a mile a minute about his ex-boyfriend and his conspiracy theories about why all rich people have suspiciously good skin.

Julian whistles low, shaking his head as he snaps a photo.

“If I wasn’t aggressively into men, I’d be down on one knee right now.”

When Julian finally packs up his camera, he starts to rise, but I catch his wrist without thinking.

"Stay," I say, softer than I mean to. "The food’s free. And... I don't really wanna eat alone."

He flashes a soft smile. "Babe, you had me at free food."

We settle in, eating and gossiping like we’ve known each other our whole lives. Somewhere between my third glass of champagne and Julian dramatically recounting his worst date ever.

“He brought his mother to the restaurant, Charlotte. His mother.”

Julian suddenly leans in.

"Okay," he whispers, low and conspiratorial. "Don't look now, but the hunk across the way? He literally can’t take his eyes off you."

I nearly choke on my champagne and jab my fork into a truffle fry instead of acknowledging it.

Julian raises an eyebrow. "Spill. Now."

I tell Julian the quick and dirty version of my soap opera life, the cheating, the drama, the one-night stand I did not know was with a billionaire.

Julian nearly falls out of his chair.

"You’re telling me you fumbled into billionaire dick and didn’t even know?"

"Julian!" I gasp-laugh, clapping my hand over my mouth.

He snickers. "You’re my new hero. But, babe, judging by the way he’s looking at you like he’s two seconds away from causing a scene...this is not over."

I laugh too loud, toss my hair, and call the waiter for another round of whatever fancy champagne they're pouring, because if I stay sober, I might actually die of overthinking.

Julian and I fall back into easy conversation, about his ex, about my tragic inability to cook anything that isn’t instant ramen, about how the waiter is lowkey flirting with him.

It's easy, being here with Julian. Easy and safe and light in a way that feels almost dangerous after the emotional dumpster fire that is my life.

Then I hear it.

The scrape of a chair against the rooftop floor.

My heart lurches before my brain even catches up.

And because the universe hates me, I glance up, only to see him.

He stops right in front of us, his shadow swallowing the candlelight whole.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Julian slowly, dramatically sip his champagne like he’s watching live theater.

"Charlotte. We need to talk."