You Were Never Just My Boss

Chapter 8

Bea’s POV

Paris should’ve been perfect.

Every postcard cliché was alive and real—the cobbled streets, the glittering Seine, the skyline blooming with ancient charm and soft gold light. It smelled like pastries and possibility. People moved like they had symphonies playing in their ears. I tried to soak it all in from the back of the town car, heart skipping every time we passed something that looked like it belonged in a magazine.

But right beside me, anchoring the entire fantasy in ice, was Julian Wolfe. Arms crossed, lips pressed tight, dressed like sin in a three-piece suit. He didn’t look impressed by the City of Love. If anything, he looked irritated that it hadn't bent to his will fast enough.

We were barely out of the airport before he launched his first jab.

“You’re getting a stylist,” he said, scrolling through his phone like he was ordering lunch. “I’m not dragging you to gala events looking like a Pinterest board from a yard sale.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“If you’re going to embarrass me,” he added coolly, “you might as well look expensive doing it.”

I opened my mouth to respond but couldn’t decide which part of that sentence deserved the loudest punch, so I turned away and watched Paris roll by my window instead. I wasn’t about to let him ruin this. Not the food, not the view, not the impossible skyline. If he wanted a show, I’d give him one.

The stylist arrived an hour later. Her name was Celine—sharp black bob, head-to-toe Dior, French accent thick as butter and twice as smooth. She didn’t blink at my curves, didn’t flinch at my wide hips or loud opinions. She just measured, nodded, and disappeared into a private atelier like a fashion fairy godmother. An hour after that, she returned with a dress in a box that looked more sacred than anything I’d ever owned. And when I put it on, the mirror didn’t lie.

It was a black silk gown that hugged my body in places I usually tried to hide. The neckline was soft, the waist cinched just enough, and the fabric moved like a secret. My hair was swept up, soft curls pinned at the nape of my neck. My red lipstick was sharp enough to draw blood. I looked like a woman who didn’t ask for permission to take up space.

I looked like someone Julian Wolfe could choke on.

The gala was held inside a palace. Literally. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, gold trim lined the walls, and every guest looked like they had arrived via private jet or inherited villa. I walked in with my head high, my heels quiet and confident on the marble floor. Julian was already there, speaking to a designer near the champagne bar, his suit midnight blue, his posture carved from marble.

When he saw me, he froze. Just for a second. His eyes traveled from my pinned curls to my neckline to the slit in the dress that revealed just enough thigh to be dangerous. His jaw tightened. His drink shifted slightly in his hand.

I didn’t smile. I just walked past him and joined the event like I wasn’t burning from the inside out.

That’s when I met Damien.

He introduced himself while I was inspecting a glass sculpture shaped like a collapsing star. “You look like you’re plotting a jewelry heist,” he said, French accent light but lazy, like it didn’t care what rules it broke.

I turned, surprised, and he grinned. Dark hair, bright eyes, hands in his pockets like the world had already said yes to him.

“I’m Damien,” he added. “Creative director. You’re clearly not from here.”

“Was it the stunned American face or the dress that says ‘I borrowed money for this’?” I joked.

He laughed, genuine and full. “Neither. It’s your eyes. They’re too wide. Like you still think things can surprise you.”

We talked for fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Long enough to forget the tension burning behind me. He made me laugh. He listened when I talked about brand identity and storytelling in fashion like it mattered. He didn’t look at me like a problem to solve. He looked at me like I was a painting he didn’t want to walk away from.

And then Julian appeared.

He didn’t say hello. Didn’t look at Damien. Just stepped in beside me, close enough that our arms brushed. His voice was low, flat, hard.

“She’s with me.” The words dropped like a stone between us.

I blinked. I looked up at him. His jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable. He was staking a claim he had no right to. I wasn’t his. Not after how he’d treated me. Not after what he said. Not after how he made me feel and then made me feel stupid for feeling it.

I pulled my arm away like it burned.

“You don’t own me, Julian,” I said, voice sharp, clear, final.

Then I turned. And I walked away….with Damien.