Sienna had been stared at before.
In elevators where the men were too old to be that bold.
In boardrooms where her voice was overlooked until repeated by a man.
In hallways when her heels clicked too loud and her confidence made people uncomfortable.
But this? This was another beast entirely.
Walking into Le Maison d'Or, Lagos' most prestigious rooftop restaurant, draped in a crimson silk slip dress and linked to Julian Blake's arm, she felt like a firework launched into a ballroom of gasps.
Eyes turned.
Phones rose subtly.
Heads tilted.
And whispers followed them like perfume.
She could feel the heat of their stares grazing her skin before the cool air-conditioning could even reach her shoulders.
Julian's grip tightened slightly at the curve of her back. A subtle, silent reassurance.
"Steady," he murmured near her ear, his breath warm. "You've got this."
"I've got nothing. I'm a walking PR distraction."
"You're a goddess in heels."
She rolled her eyes, but her chest tightened—not with annoyance, but something more dangerous.
Flattery, when delivered in his low, unhurried voice, felt like a loaded weapon.
The maître d', practically vibrating with eagerness, greeted Julian like royalty.
"Mr. Blake, your table is ready. Right this way."
Julian nodded smoothly. Sienna held her chin high and walked beside him, each click of her heels echoing off the marble floor like a metronome measuring the beat of her anxiety.
She tried not to notice the other diners—executives, celebrities, influencers, society wives—how their glances lingered too long. She knew they were assessing, calculating, wondering:
Isn't that his assistant?
How long has this been going on?
Is this real?
How cliché. Sleeping with the boss.
He's never brought a woman here before.
The table was in a strategically terrible spot. Front-facing, near the window, with a perfect view of the skyline—and a perfect view of them from every angle.
Sienna sat delicately, smoothing her dress over her lap as Julian took his seat across from her.
"You planned this seat?"
"PR team did," he said, not even pretending to deny it. "Visibility is the point."
She leaned forward, her voice low and sharp. "I feel like an animal in a glass box."
"You're a fox," he said, meeting her eyes. "And you're outsmarting them all."
A small, reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. "Careful, Julian. You almost sounded charming."
Their waiter arrived like a man trying not to combust. He looked barely twenty, wide-eyed, and more interested in Sienna than the wine menu.
"G-good evening, Mr. Blake. Miss…?"
"Cole," she offered smoothly.
"I—we're honored to have you both."
"Bottle of the Château Margaux 2004," Julian said without glancing at the menu. "And the chef's special, please. Two."
"Right away, sir."
The moment the waiter left, Sienna arched a brow.
"You ordered for me?"
Julian rested his forearms on the table, gaze steady. "You looked like you needed the menu to stop shaking in your hands."
"I was composing myself."
"You were vibrating."
She scowled. "You are so smug."
"Fake boyfriend privilege," he said with a shrug. "Clause 7, subsection B—gentle interference allowed when the partner is short-circuiting."
"I hate how well you remember the contract."
"I'm a CEO. It's literally my job to memorize documents I'll later pretend not to read."
That drew a surprised laugh from her, and unfortunately for them both, the timing was perfect.
A man at a neighboring table leaned in toward his date.
Click.
A flash from outside caught them mid-laugh.
Sienna's hand rested lightly on the table near Julian's.
Another click.
Another moment, frozen and sold.
"You realize this is going to be on blogs by midnight?" she muttered.
"Good. Let them talk." He sipped his water calmly. "Let them burn."
⸻
Thirty Minutes Later
Dinner was delicious. Sienna barely tasted it.
She was too focused on posture. On timing her sips of wine to match Julian's. On how often to smile versus gaze lovingly. On what "loving gaze" even looked like.
"You're overthinking it," Julian said softly between courses.
"I'm not."
"You're cutting your salmon like it insulted your ancestors."
She paused mid-slice and groaned. "This is humiliating."
Julian leaned closer, lowering his voice. "If you're going to fake a relationship with me, you need to stop thinking like my assistant and start acting like someone who chose to be here."
"I didn't choose."
"You did. You agreed to the contract. You signed the lines."
She stabbed a piece of asparagus and chewed hard.
He watched her for a moment, then asked gently, "What's really bothering you?"
She looked up.
And that was when it hit her.
This wasn't just hard because of the public pressure or the flashes outside the windows.
It was hard because sitting here, across from him—him—felt alarmingly natural.
Julian Blake was magnetic. When he listened, he really listened. When he smiled—rare, subtle, like something stolen—it made her stomach dip. And when he looked at her like this, like she was the only thing worth watching in a room full of millionaires…
She forgot they were pretending.
"I don't like the way people are looking at me," she admitted finally. "Like I'm an accessory."
"You're not."
"Maybe not to you. But to them?" She nodded toward the murmuring tables. "I'm the flavor of the week. The scandal. The office fling."
"You're Sienna Cole," Julian said evenly. "They're just too stupid to see it."
Her breath caught. "Julian…"
He leaned back slightly, easing the moment before it tipped too far into intimacy.
"I don't do things halfway," he said. "Not business. Not appearances. And definitely not fake relationships. If we're going to play this role, we're going to play it like we mean it."
She nodded slowly.
Then, after a beat: "So…what does that mean for us?"
"It means when I take your hand—" he reached across the table and did just that, his fingers warm against her cooler ones "—you don't flinch like I'm contagious."
She opened her mouth, but he squeezed gently.
"And when I look at you like this—" his voice dropped a notch, his eyes holding hers "—you hold eye contact. You lean into the illusion."
"I—okay."
"And when we leave this restaurant in ten minutes," he continued, now smiling faintly, "you let me walk you down those steps like I'm proud of you."
Sienna didn't realize she'd stopped breathing until he let go of her hand and the spell broke.
⸻
The Exit
They stood.
Julian helped her into her coat. The waiter returned with a dessert menu. Julian declined with a practiced smile. Cameras had reappeared outside—flashes lining the sidewalk like stars gone rogue.
As they walked toward the door, Sienna felt Julian shift closer, his hand brushing against hers again. Then sliding lower—fingers threading with hers.
Her breath hitched.
"This is for show," she reminded him.
"I know," he murmured, even as his thumb moved in a small, absent circle over her knuckles. "We're performing, remember?"
They stepped into the cool night air together.
And the world exploded in light.
Reporters shouted their names. Fans called out. The Blake PR machine had clearly done its job well.
Julian didn't flinch.
He simply turned to her, leaned in slightly, and murmured, "Smile like you're falling for me."
So she did.
She smiled like she meant it.
And for the first time that night, she couldn't tell where the act ended… and the danger began.