The high-speed elevator glided up to the Sterling Penthouse in total, oppressive silence.
The brief, breathless moment we had shared in the back of the SUV—the warmth of his chest beneath my palm, the silent lock of our eyes—might as well have been wiped clean by a corporate reboot.
The second the heavy elevator doors slid open into the minimalist marble foyer of the penthouse, Julian snapped right back into his cold, impenetrable CEO mask.
He unbuttoned his sleeve cuffs with swift, efficient movements.
He did not look back at me once as he tossed his tailored jacket onto the arm of a dark leather armchair.
“Genevieve will be here at seven sharp tomorrow morning to begin your high-society protocol training,” he said.
His tone was dry, flat, and completely professional.
“The boardroom win was step one.
But Elder Sterling will use the upcoming Thanksgiving Gala to test your social credentials in front of the European proxies.
Make sure you know every single name on the guest list by heart.” Aaaand the arctic freeze is officially back, my internal commentary booth announced, pulling out a heavy winter parka and earmuffs.
Exit the vulnerable son.
Re-enter the ice-cube billionaire.
Back to your assigned cheap seating, theater major!
“Got it, boss,” I replied.
I forced a quick, sarcastic salute as I slung my worn canvas handbag over my shoulder.
“I will memorize all the high-society aristocrats before bedtime.” Julian paused for a fraction of a second.
His dark eyes swept over me—cool, distant, and completely unreadable.
“You did your job today, Roxie,” he added.
His voice remained strictly transactional.
“The accounting department will wire the second installment of your contract fee to your bank account tonight.
Get some rest.” No warmth.
No soft looks.
No hint of the man who had let me see his pain just thirty minutes ago.
Just a powerful executive dismissing a temp worker after a successful business deal.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, pulling my eyes away.
I turned on my heel and marched down the hallway to my private guest suite.
The second the heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, I dropped the tight, posture-perfect aristocratic stance.
I threw myself face-first onto the massive king-sized bed and let out a long, loud, muffled scream right into the goose-feather pillows.
“Professional,” I muttered to the ceiling, staring up at the crystal chandelier.
“Strictly business.
Totally off-limits.
He is an untouchable CEO, you are a fake matriarch, and if anyone finds out about this disguise, you both go directly to prison for massive fraud.
Keep your head in the game, Fox.
Do not get silly.” To distract my brain from the lingering memory of his pulse beating under my hand, I pulled out my cheap smartphone.
I unzipped the suffocating corset dress, kicked it into the corner of the room, and flopped back onto the bed wearing my soft grey sweatpants and an oversized college t-shirt.
I tapped open my social media apps.
My jaw instantly hit the mattress.
“Oh…
holy crap.” The internet was not just talking about the Sterling Tower boardroom meeting—it had completely, utterly lost its mind.
Secret audio clips leaked by an insider had gone viral across TikTok, Twitter, and global news sites in less than four hours.
There was already a fan-made video edit of me—or rather, “Lady Sterling”—stepping out of the dark limousine in my emerald suit, set to a heavy-bass rap track.
The video already had four point two million likes.
Look at that chin tilt!
my inner fan-girl gasped as I scrolled through the comment section, wheezing with laughter into my pillow.
@C_Drama_Obsessed: SHE TOLD AN EIGHTY-YEAR-OLD BILLIONAIRE HIS LEGAL MOTION WAS MORALLY EMBARRASSING???
QUEEN BEHAVIOR!
👑🔥 @CEO_Slayer: The way she did not even look at Elder Sterling when she destroyed his proxy rights…
I need this woman to manage my whole life.
@BillionaireWatcher: Who is this woman?!
She popped out of nowhere from Monaco and took down the entire Sterling board in forty-five minutes!
Mother is MOTHERING!
@WealthTok: Julian Sterling standing behind her like an absolute bodyguard male lead.
The aura in that room was insane.
“Mother is mothering,” I wheezed out loud, wiping a tear of laughter from my eye.
“If only they knew ‘Mother’ eats two-dollar instant ramen out of a cracked mug and is currently wearing socks with holes in the toes.” For a few minutes, the absurd fame of it all felt like a fun high.
I was just a broke acting student who had pulled off the performance of a lifetime.
The fake hair, the prosthetics, the fierce lines—it had actually worked.
DING.
A sleek notification line flashed across the screen of the internal penthouse intercom tablet on my bedside stand.
I reached out and picked it up.
A small, foolish part of me expected a quiet text…
maybe a simple ‘good job today’ or a brief check-in after how heavy things had been in the car.
Instead, it was a cold, standardized message from Julian: [Julian]: The board has reviewed the market reaction.
Sterling stock is up 14% after-hours due to the public perception of ‘Lady Sterling’s’ return.
Because of the media frenzy, Elder Sterling has pushed the Thanksgiving Cathedral Service up to this Thursday.
[Julian]: You will be under a microscope.
Do not fail.
I stared at the glowing blue text on the screen.
The quiet warmth from earlier—his heart beating beneath my fingertips, his raw, honest confession about his adoptive mother—vanished like a quick illusion I had made up in my head.
A sudden, sharp sting hit the back of my throat.
I hated how much it bothered me.
Over the past few days, I had actually started getting used to the unspoken rhythm between us—the shared looks across crowded rooms, the silent teamwork, the small feeling that maybe, just maybe, we were facing this crazy corporate war together.
Stupid, Roxie.
Absolutely stupid, my internal monologue chided me.
The funny announcer voice disappeared completely, replaced by a quiet, dry reality check.
He is an ice-cube CEO running a multi-billion-dollar empire.
You are a fifty-thousand-dollar temp hire in fake silver hair extensions.
‘Do not fail’ is literally all you are to him.
Remember who he is.
He might soften for a brief second, but the cold shell always comes back.
“Stingy, arrogant, emotionally bankrupt robot,” I muttered under my breath.
My chest tightened with a tiny, ridiculous pang of hurt.
It was stupid to care, but a simple ‘thank you for saving my neck today’ would not have killed him.
“Not even a ‘thanks.’ Just ‘Do not fail.’ Okay, Sir Julian.” I slammed the tablet screen face-down onto the mattress.
I kicked off my threadbare socks, pulled the heavy duvet all the way over my head, and forced my eyes shut before my brain could overthink it any further.
The audacity!
(┬┬﹏┬┬) What do you think of Julian’s ice-cube energy coming right back?
See you Thursday at the Cathedral!( ＾◡＾)っ