If you ever want to test how strong your nervous system is, try standing in the middle of a grand ballroom in high heels, wearing a forty-thousand-dollar vintage mink coat over an emerald silk gown, pretending to be a billionaire’s terrifying adoptive mother from Monaco.
Oh, and do it while a girl you took Intro to Theater with in campus three months ago is holding a tray of caviar canapés four feet away from your face.
Welcome to my life.
The Metropolitan Children’s Hospital Charity Auction was happening at the St.
Regis, and every single person who had a Wikipedia page or a tax bracket higher than a small country was in attendance.
The room was a blinding sea of crystal chandeliers, floating white orchid arrangements, and women whose faces had so much Botox they couldn’t physically frown at my outfit.
And right beside me stood Julian Sterling.
He looked so absurdly handsome in his custom black tux that it was actually rude.
His broad shoulders completely filled out the cut, his dark hair was neatly styled back, and he held a glass of mineral water like he owned the entire building—which, knowing his portfolio, he probably did.
The icy, ruthless CEO vibe was radiating off him in waves, making every passing high-society snob whisper in hushed, terrified tones.
“You’re twitching, Miss Fox,” Julian murmured, his deep, rough voice cutting through the soft orchestral music.
He didn’t turn his head to look at me, but his hand lightly touched the small of my back—a steady, warm pressure that made my pulse do a stupid, chaotic backflip.
“I’m not twitching, CEO,” I hissed through my static, aristocratic smile, adjusting my giant black sunglasses.
“My silver wig is just itching, and I am sixty percent sure the man near the chocolate fountain is an undercover tax auditor.” Julian let out a quiet, breathless chuckle that vibrated straight through his chest.
“That’s Lord Harrington.
He owns six banks.” “Same thing,” I muttered.
“Also, why is your hand resting on my waist like that?
We’re supposed to be mother and son in public, remember?” Julian’s fingers tightened just a fraction against my silk dress, his dark eyes finally sliding over to meet mine through my tinted lenses.
“Lady Sterling is known for being fiercely protective of her favorite billionaire.
Consider it method acting.” Method acting my foot.
My heart was hammering against my ribs like a base drum.
Why does he have to smell so good?!
It’s like expensive musk and pure power.
Get it together, Roxie!
You are fifty-five years old from Monaco today!
“Mother!
Uncle Julian!” Chloe came bouncing over through the crowd, looking gorgeous in a pale blue tulle gown.
She leaned in, keeping her voice low while beaming at me.
“The auctioneer said we’re up next to present the primary charity donation!
You guys look so iconic.
Victoria Vance is sitting at table four and she looks like she swallowed a lemon!” “I saw her,” I rasped out in my thick, signature accent.
“Tell her if she keeps glaring at me, I will buy her table and turn it into a shoe rack.” Chloe choked on her laugh, clapping her hands.
“I love you so much.” “Focus, both of you,” Julian commanded, though his sharp jawline relaxed into a faint smirk.
“We need to go up to the VIP podium.
The press is already set up.” We turned toward the raised platform near the main stage, and that’s when my entire life flashed before my eyes.
A catering captain in a white button-down shirt and black apron stepped right into our path, carrying a heavy silver tray of champagne glasses.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
Her eyes widened, scanning my platinum-silver hair, my oversized fur coat, my pearl necklaces, and then locked straight onto my face.
It was Sarah.
Sarah Miller.
My former drama department classmate who I literally shared a bag of three-dollar gas station chips with during finals week last semester.
Her jaw dropped.
“Roxie…?” she gasped, her voice echoing in the small gap between the music.
“Roxie Fox?!
What the hell are you wearing?!” Code Red.
Danger.
Immediate System Failure.
My soul practically left my body and flew out the high glass windows.
I could feel Julian’s entire frame instantly go rigid beside me.
His dark eyes flicked from Sarah to me, his ruthless predator instincts kicking in within half a second.
Table four—where Victoria Vance was sitting with three other high-society gossips—was only twenty feet away, and Victoria’s ears had practically perked up like a Doberman dog.
Think, Roxie, THINK!
Use the drama degree you’re paying thousands for!
“Roxie?!” I shrieked, gasping in horror and clapping my lace-gloved hands to my chest in absolute disgust.
“Did this girl just call me Roxie?!” Sarah blinked, utterly confused.
“Wait…
Roxie, it’s me!
Sarah!
From Acting 101!
Why do you have a wig on—” “Julian, darling, call security!” I bellowed in my loudest, most insufferable European drawl, drawing the eyes of at least thirty wealthy donors around us.
“The catering staff is delusional!
She thinks I am a girl named Roxie!
Does I look like a ‘Roxie’ to you?!
Roxie sounds like a golden retriever or a stripper from Ohio!” “Wait, what—” Sarah stammered, stepping back as Julian stepped directly between us, his massive frame completely blocking Sarah from Victoria Vance’s line of sight.
Julian’s face was an absolute mask of terrifying, icy authority.
He looked down at the poor catering girl with eyes so cold she looked ready to burst into tears.
“Excuse me,” Julian said, his deep voice carrying a lethal, quiet threat.
“Are you harassing my mother?” “N-no, sir!
I thought she was—” “You thought wrong,” Julian cut her off ruthlessly.
“You will take your tray, step back into the kitchen, and speak to your manager about your employment status before I buy your catering company and fire everyone on this floor.” Sarah turned pale, nodded frantically, and praticamente sprinted toward the kitchen doors like she was being chased by a ghost.
I let out a dramatic, shuddering breath, leaning heavily against Julian’s muscular arm.
“Mon dieu…
the disrespect in this country.
A woman can’t even wear fifty carats of South Sea pearls without the staff mistaking her for a college student!” Julian slowly turned to look at me.
He raised one dark eyebrow, his eyes glinting with a dangerous mixture of disbelief and utter fascination.
“A stripper from Ohio, Miss Fox?” he whispered, his head dipping down so close to mine that his breath warm against my ear.
“I panicked, okay?!” I whispered back fiercely under my breath, my heart pounding so hard I thought my corset wire would snap.
“She knew my name!
I had to throw her off!” “You’re insane,” Julian murmured, his hand wrapping firmly around my waist to lead me toward the podium steps.
But as he guided me up, his thumb lightly stroked the side of my hip, sending a fiery jolt of electricity straight down my legs.
“And you’re surprisingly good under pressure.” “I am an artist, CEO,” I muttered, my cheeks flushing red beneath my high-society blush.
“Now hold my fur coat before I accidentally auction it off for fifty grand.” The rest of the auction went by in a blur of gold gavels, applause, and Julian casually bidding two hundred thousand dollars on a rare painting just to flex on Richard Montgomery, who was sitting three rows back looking miserable.
By 11:00 PM, the gala was winding down, and we were standing near the private rear exit waiting for Julian’s armored Maybach to pull up.
Chloe had already left with the security detail, leaving just the two of us in the dimly lit, marble-walled private valet lounge.
I finally reached up, took off my giant sunglasses, and leaned my head back against the cold marble wall, utterly exhausted.
“I survived,” I groaned, leaning my head back against the cold marble wall.
“I deserve a medal.
Or a pizza.
A full cheese pizza.” “You did well tonight, Roxie,” Julian said smoothly My eyes flew open.
He didn’t call me ‘Lady Sterling.’ He didn’t call me ‘Miss Fox.’ He used my real name.
Coming out of his deep rumble, it sounded heavy—like a secret he was holding over me.
He stepped closer, his massive frame cutting off the light.
The cold corporate monster wasn’t gone; he was just focused entirely on me.
He reached out, his long fingers casually brushing aside a silver strand of my wig to rest against the side of my neck, his thumb feeling the rapid, chaotic beat of my pulse.
“A stripper from Ohio?” Julian murmured, a slow, lethal smirk playing on his sharp jaw.
“You lie with terrifying speed.” “I…
I have a job to do,” I stammered, my confidence evaporating as his heat radiated against me.
“You’re paying me a lot of money.” “And you’re enjoying every second of the danger,” Julian countered, his voice dropping to an intimate, low pitch that sent a shiver straight to my core.
He leaned in, his dark eyes fixed on mine.
“Don’t pretend this is just a paycheck, Miss Fox.” My breath hitched.
I couldn’t move.
Buzz.
Buzz.
The sharp vibration of his phone shattered the silence like glass…
Julian didn’t move at first.
He stayed close, his eyes holding mine for two agonizing seconds before he reluctantly pulled back and reached into his inner jacket pocket.
“It’s the driver,” I guessed, trying to catch my breath and pretend my heart wasn’t trying to leap out of my chest.
Julian unlocked his phone.
But he didn’t answer a call.
He looked at the screen, and in less than two seconds, every ounce of warmth drained from his face and his expression turned instantly ashy and terrifyingly cold—more lethal than I had ever seen it in the boardroom.
“Julian?” I asked, stepping closer, my playful mood completely vanishing.
“What is it?” Without a word, Julian turned the phone screen toward me.
It was a text message from an unknown, encrypted number.
Attached was a crystal-clear, high-definition photo.
It wasn’t a photo of Lady Sterling.
It was a photo of me.
Roxie Fox.
Taken two days ago outside my trashy, rundown apartment building, carrying my worn-out cardboard suitcase, wearing my oversized hoodie and faded sneakers.
And below the photo, a short text message read: “Beautiful wig, Mr.
Sterling.
How much is the board paying for a 22-year-old drama major?” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Bel_Rose Not Roxie claiming her real name sounds like a golden retriever or an Ohio stripper to save her $40,000 mink coat persona!(^__^) She survived the board, she survived Victoria Vance, and she even survived her college classmate…
but THAT TEXT MESSAGE AT THE END?!
Someone took a photo of Roxie outside her apartment, and the game just got DEADLY.
Who do you think sent that text?
Victoria Vance?
Richard Montgomery?
Or someone inside Sterling Global?