Immediately the clock ticked six, I slipped out of my shift uniform and headed straight for a shower. The diner had been a whirlwind today. Fridays were always like that—buzzing with noise, full tables, and endless orders. And of course, Thomas wasn't ready to let me go. I had to lie—told him I needed to comfort Vera, mourning the loss of my stepsister. I even forced out a few fake tears. Only then did he release me with a sigh.
I got dressed in the best my wardrobe could offer—a cream-colored mini skirt and a fitted tank top. I dabbed on some makeup, but wiped most of it off at the last minute, leaving only a glossy shine on my lips.
When I was done, I stood in front of the mirror, just… staring.
What the hell was I doing?
It was my stepsister's funeral, and here I was—stepping out to meet her ex in a hotel room. Dressed up. Lip gloss on. Nipples intentionally visible beneath the thin fabric of my tank top. I hadn't even bothered with a bra. My round breasts stood proud, begging for attention.
God, I was pathetic.
A whore. That's what I was. A cheap slut.
Getting ready to fuck my dead stepsister's ex on the night of her funeral. I deserved worse than this broke, falling-apart life I was living.
Still, I stepped out.
Ginny was in her room, probably asleep. I'd been avoiding her for days—rent was due, and I barely had a dime to contribute. Yeah, that's me. A broke friend. A terrible roommate. A disgrace of a sister.
What a damn combination.
The hotel's lounge took me by surprise. Gold accents everywhere. The nameplate at the front desk gleamed in rich, engraved fonts. The chandelier dripped elegance, casting a warm, golden glow over the polished floor.
I exhaled in relief when I remembered I didn't need to check in. I had the key. The receptionists looked way too serious for me to fumble around in front of them.
I stepped into the elevator and pressed the card against the panel for the penthouse.
Sixteen floors up, it dinged open into a space that screamed opulence. A grand chandelier hung overhead. Cushions that looked like they belonged in a magazine. A long, curved staircase slithered upward, and a piano sat to the side like it was waiting for someone with talent. The elevator slid shut behind me, locking me into this unfamiliar world.
Compared to this? I looked like a stray.
My reflection in the mirror panel confirmed it. Sure, I'd styled my blonde hair nicely, but the lip gloss was already fading, and my eyeliner was a ghost of itself. I sighed, heart hammering.
What if Julien wasn't impressed?
Would he ask me to leave?
My hand brushed over my chest, pinching the barely-there fabric between my fingers. My nipples were clearly visible. I should've worn a damn bra. Now I just looked desperate.
Because I was.
Julien was the only man I'd ever crushed on hard enough to dream about. The only man I'd ever imagined dating, kissing, touching. I got why I was desperate—but this? This was low, even for me. He hadn't even asked me out.
I knew what I looked like to him.
Cheap. And I knew he knew that.
A warm hand slipped around my waist from behind, and I flinched, startled. I turned quickly.
Julien.
He stood there, casual yet sharp in a plain grey shirt and black pants, a brown belt accentuating his lean build. His hair was still damp, ruffled like he'd run a hand through it too many times. He smelled faintly of strawberry body wash and something muskier beneath.
"You—you're early."
Control yourself, Penelope. Get it together.
He tilted his head, one brow slightly raised. "It's 6:45, Pen."
Wait. What?
I was that late?
"Uhm… I-I'm sorry. It was—"
"It's fine." His voice was smooth, calm. He took my hand—his touch warm, soft—and pulled me gently toward the dining area.
It was ten times bigger than my bedroom.
"What would you like?" he asked, his tone so casual it felt surreal. "I made a few options."
We pulled up to the table, and my mouth parted in shock at the sight before me.
Three different dishes.
Risotto with wild mushrooms and parmesan cheese.
Pan-seared salmon resting on a bed of quinoa and sautéed spinach.
Grilled chicken accompanied by roasted vegetables.
I blinked, stunned. "Your chef made this?"
He tilted his head, frowning slightly. "Chef?"
"Yeah. Well…" I trailed off, narrowing my eyes. "You didn't make this yourself, did you?"
The amused curve on his lips gave him away.
My jaw dropped, this time for real. "Oh my God, Julien."
He shrugged, but there was that teasing glint in his eyes. "I wasn't sure what you'd like. Or…" he leaned forward just slightly, voice velvet-soft, "you could have them all. Your choice, baby."
My face lit up with a grin so wide I swore my jaw might detach. "Thank you," I whispered, suddenly breathless.
He smiled, slow and devilish. "Anything for you, my love."
I swallowed, heat prickling the back of my neck as he stood behind me and gently pulled a chair out. I lowered myself onto it, and his fingers ghosted against my back for a split second too long. When he sat across from me, the air between us thickened—thick and charged.
We ate in silence, but not peace.
I couldn't stop staring at his mouth.
The way his lips moved around each bite, glistening just slightly from the chicken's juices—moist, plush, a little sinful. The urge to lean across the table, swipe the grease with my thumb, and taste it off my own finger… it clawed at me.
As if he felt it, his eyes lifted. Caught me. Held me.
I froze. Still chewing, he tilted his head slightly, his fork lazily twirling a piece of chicken between his fingers. That simple motion somehow made my thighs press together under the table.
Why was this man so perfect?
"What?" he asked, voice low and rich. "Aren't you hungry?"
I nodded, unable to lie. "No."
His brows arched, amused. "Why not?"
The tone of his voice dipped. It wasn't a question anymore—it was an invitation.
I didn't even think before saying it. "I'm hungry for something else." The words spilled out, sultry and unfiltered, and I bit my lower lip hard.
He stilled. His gaze, already heavy, darkened. "Well, that makes two of us," he murmured. "I knew you didn't plan for me to stay sane the moment you walked in wearing that."
His voice, edged with hunger, slipped beneath my skin like warm silk.
I swallowed hard.
He popped the forkful into his mouth and chewed slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving my chest. It dropped—just enough to notice the outline of my breasts through the thin fabric.
His jaw flexed as he swallowed, and I had to grip the edge of the chair just to stay grounded.
I took a bite of the greasy chicken when a question clawed its way up my throat. It sat there, burning, reckless. It could ruin everything.
But I said it anyway. "Are we going to have sex?"
Julien didn't flinch. He set his wine glass down slowly, eyes smoldering with something dark and heady. "Do you want us to?"
"Yes." My breath caught. "Fuck yes, Julien."
Slut. That's what my mind screamed—but I didn't care. Not when it was him.
Without wasting another breath, he dropped his fork with a loud clatter on the ceramic plate. The sound sliced through the room like thunder. He dragged his chair back with purpose and rose, movements slow and commanding.
He didn't rush. He stalked toward me.
Each step he took made my pulse race.
Then, instead of pulling me to him, he slid into the chair beside me—his presence so close it burned. His hand found my bare thigh, and his thumb brushed slowly, almost reverently, over my skin.
"First," he said, voice low and possessive, "I want to ask you something."
I blinked, breath caught. "What?"
"Will you be my girlfriend?"
Time stopped.
I froze, the air sucked from my lungs as if the room itself had paused to hear my answer.
His hand didn't leave my thigh. Instead, it squeezed gently, grounding me in this reality. Then he lifted his other hand and cupped my jaw, angling my face to his. His thumb caressed my cheek as he spoke.
"Before you answer, I want you to understand something," he said, voice full of heat and sincerity. "You're not just going to be mine—I'm going to belong to you too. I'll put down my last fucking coin for you, Pen."
His thumb traced my bottom lip, slowly.
"I'll spend on you until I'm penniless. I'll get you anything. Everything. The world. Just name it. I'll burn down the sky to make you smile."
My lips parted, but nothing came out. I stared, stunned, reeling from the intensity of what he'd just said. He looked at me like I was a miracle. Like I was the only thing left worth worshipping.
His eyes didn't blink. Didn't wander.
"Will you be my girlfriend, Pen?" he asked again, this time softer… but hungrier.
As if he needed me to say yes to keep breathing.