5. Juliana

FIVE

JULIANA

Never would I have thought a dessert menu could insult my social class.

Squinting, my eyes drag down the list. With each name, I'm wondering more and more whether I missed out on French tutoring lessons in my adolescence, while simultaneously accepting I couldn't possibly pronounce a single dish to our waiter. But it's worse than that. Because the parts that I can read are even worse—the prices.

Even though I should be accustomed to them by now, having already devoured our eighty-dollar lobster tail appetizer and my three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar Wagyu ribeye, my stomach drops all the same. Especially when I come across the only item I recognize.

"There sure is a lot of scowling going on over there."

If Hayden's deep tenor wasn't enough to redirect my thoughts back to him, then one look across the candle-lit table does the trick. As our eyes connect, my pulse flutters.

Even though it shouldn't, I remind myself.

This whole night, I've done nothing but wonder when the sensation would subside, when his appearance would lose its effect. But, just like this expensive menu, Hayden Kingston is a conundrum of two degrees. Not only is he the epitome of an upper-class heartthrob, with crystal-blue eyes, perfectly tousled hair, straight teeth, a jawline destined for the cover of GQ, and a wardrobe that certainly costs more than I'll make in my lifetime. But he's actually charming and makes great conversation, when he wants to.

He smirks, and I instantly realize I've been staring. Again.

My head snaps back down to the menu. A fire blazes along my cheeks as I recall the most dangerous of all his qualities.

I'm an open book to him.

His warm chuckle simmers across our space, leaving it crackling with tension. My thighs move of their own accord, pressing together tightly, causing a sensation that does little to help my case. And like the mind reader he is, Hayden teases, "Stare all you want, Jules. Take a picture, if you like."

Jules.

In an instant, I'm bombarded with a barrage of unwelcome images. Like the slide of an old film reel, yet more vivid and enchanting, each scene soaring by at warped speeds.

Anticipation, teenage angst, and Green Day's "21 Guns" float through the tiny room. His lips are on mine. One hand on the nape of my neck, the other drawing circles on my thigh. For a moment, I'm captured by the lust of it all, reveling beneath a touch so experienced, a touch that rarely lands on someone like me. Until reality dumps an ice-cold bucket over my head, washing all but my sizzling anger.

They always come, these images, at the sound of that nickname. Jules. His nickname for me. And his only. The name he once laid claim to, before he—

No, I stop myself, stuffing the memories right back where they belong, where they've remained for five years:

In the past.

Ignoring his taunt, I face the desserts once more, lips curling in disapproval. "Who in their right mind would pay fifty-nine dollars for tiramisu?" Despite my words, saliva coats my tongue as I picture the delicate layers of chocolatey goodness.

"Is that what's got you dissin' the desserts, the cost? Well, choose whatever you like. I thought it'd be obvious, but I don't believe in fifty-fifty."

I quirk an eyebrow. "What on earth does that mean?"

"I don't believe in splitting the bill. Ever."

I blink, letting his words sink in.

If I'm being honest, I assumed he was paying for the meal, seeing as I sure as hell couldn't. Not at a place like this. I'd have to roll up my sleeves for the dishes in the back—for weeks—and cough up rent money I can't spare. Hayden's on a level of wealth I can't fathom, even having grown up beside him. So, accepting the notion is easy. But... it's the way he said it.

He doesn't believe in splitting the bill. He doesn't believe in letting me pay for myself, as if the idea itself offends him.

Reading my reaction, Hayden shoots me a cocky grin, adjusting his long sleeves and flashing the band of his gold Rolex. I stare at the watch, which probably costs more than what I make in a year, and his smile only widens.

My toes curl in my heels. Curse my fleeting feminism.

"Come on." He winks. "I know tiramisu is your favorite."

Gosh, does he really have to know everything?

"No need. I'm pretty full, anyway."

"Take one bite, then."

"One bite?"

He nods. Plain and simple.

"Yeah, right. Like you'd pay sixty dollars for me to take a single bite of my dessert."

He looks me dead in the eye with not an ounce of humor. "No, I'd pay sixty dollars for you to just look at it."

I nearly choke on my water. Exhaling calmly through my nostrils, I swallow the burn. Keep it together, I scold myself. He's rich. You knew that already. Get over it. At this point, you've done nothing but inflate his ego more than it already was.

Clearing my throat, I shrug. "It's okay, really. I'm not a fan of tiramisu for leftovers."

I expect another round of persistence from him, but instead, all I receive is the oddest expression. One I'd earn if I said the Yankees were from Philly or the Empire State was in Seattle. Utter. Confusion.

"Leftovers?" He says the word as if it's got a bad taste.

Now it's my turn to nod, my brows cinching in confusion.

"Why would you take leftovers?"

What is this, some foreign concept to the guy???

"So I can eat it tomorrow...? Duh."

"Wouldn't you rather just go out again?"

Case in point. Unfathomable wealth.

Who can afford going out to eat every night? Especially to a place like this. I skip the small talk. "How many times have you been here, to this steakhouse?" Waiting for his reply, my stomach twists uncomfortably, for a reason I can't quite pinpoint.

"Hmmm..." He sweeps his thumb and forefinger across his jaw in the most distracting way. "This has to be probably my twelfth visit." My gut drops, immediately identifying the source of my queasiness.

Jealousy.

Suppressing any and all emotions that may surface, I scan the restaurant's spacious layout for perhaps the tenth time tonight. But with a new perspective.

Intimate tables line the perimeter, cloaked in white clothes and accented by spotless silverware and wine glasses. Ambient lighting glows from low-hanging, modern chandeliers, flickering candles, and the spectacular view, casting smooth shadows along the faces of affluent men in suits and women donning cocktail dresses. Dresses that, upon a closer look, trump mine in every sense. They sparkle a little brighter. Drape a little smoother. Accentuate their curves a little more seductively.

This is obviously a date night hotspot. And to Hayden, I'm his twelfth.

The number stings in my headspace, but I quickly bat it away. "Wow..." is all I say, returning to his confident self, surprised when my voice comes out even. Rid of all that pesky— pointless— jealousy, because there's nothing dumber than being hung up on a playboy. A man who made his rounds through my entire high school, then graduated to Princeton's sorority sisters, and is now on the prowl amidst New York City's upper elite.

You're nothing special to him, Juliana, those little devils whisper. How many times does he have to remind you?

When he counters with another flirtatious remark, I stop our conversation in its tracks, and with it, killing off any unwanted feelings toward my brother's best friend. Then I resort to my favorite form of deflection—insulting him.

I roll my eyes. "You're insufferable."

"And what will you have, miss?" the bartender asks. Cleanly shaven and wearing a professional vest with the Mandarin Oriental's crest, he complements the bar's gentlemen-esque vibe.

"I'll take a Shirley Temple, please."

Seated beside me on a leather-backed barstool, Hayden grumbles curses under his breath. The bartender nods, not the least bit offended by my non-alcoholic choice, like some people, then disappears down the wall lined with top-shelf liquors. None of which are required for my fruity refresher.

I swivel on my stool to find Hayden pinching the bridge of his nose, as if he's physically in pain. "We're in a bar , Jules. What twenty-three-year-old orders a Shirley fucking Temple at a bar?"

Pursing my lips, I don't bite the bait, ignoring his taunt that would only lead to more banter and bullshit. Enough is enough. Tonight, I played his stupid games, sat through a date he tricked me into attending, then lured me into staying. I even let him walk us straight into a lounge once our elevator opened to the lobby floor, when the last thing I want is to share a drink with him. But no more. Now, I want what he promised.

Answers. And answers only.

I cross my legs, neatly intertwining my fingers over my knee. "Tell me how I can land my game a feature at DreamScape."

His face falls, but a smirk still snags the corners of his mouth. "Don't you want to wait for your drink before grilling me?"

"No."

He blinks, presumably waiting for me to lighten up. For a reassuring smile or something. But one never comes. "Alrighty, then. No waiting." He clears his throat and props an elbow on the bar top. "Kingston Entertainment is sponsoring five games at this year's DreamScape, and one spot for the Indie Creator Showcase."

One sentence. One sentence from his mouth and...

My. Mind. Goes. Fucking. Blank.

Thanks to this barstool, I remain upright.

Dumbfounded isn't really the right word. Neither is stupefied or really any single word capable of adequately capturing my reaction. It's more like my entire ribcage catapulted into my windpipe or a boulder the size of the sun splashed down in the pit of my stomach.

Because what he said can't be true.

DreamScape is only the largest gaming convention in the country, probably in the whole world. It's the way to put your game on the map and in front of the most eyes possible. For years, I've tried to land a feature, since starting Cosmic Kitty Defense during my first year of college. But landing one is nearly impossible. Thousands of indie devs apply each year, all hoping for the same thing.

I stare at him, my brain a vacant slate. "Come again?"

"You heard me right."

When the bartender returns with our drinks, I recollect my thoughts as my mental gears churn. "Why would a film production company involve itself with DreamScape?"

"The company's considered moving into the gaming industry for a while. It's a lucrative sector right now with an expanding market capitalization. Although it hasn't reached public knowledge, the board has decided to pull the trigger."

Lucrative sector...?

Market capitalization...?

... Am I still speaking with the same Hayden who throws sex parties, frequents the front of gossip news for dating A-listers, and intentionally arrives late to first dates? Or did he and his body double swap places while I was undergoing a mental crisis? My eyes narrow into slits as I judge his straight yet relaxed posture, the controlled gleam in his gaze, and the way he hasn't even glanced at his drink...

The math isn't mathing.

I cross my arms. "And how would you know such an insider secret?"

When he reaches into his pants pocket, I expect some magical paper that'll clear my suspicions, but out comes a box of cigarettes. Anxiety coils around me at the sight of them. Is smoking allowed in here? But it seems Silver Spoon here doesn't care for rules, as he plops a white stick between his lips. Flicking his metallic lighter, he eyes me with amusement, smoke billowing from his mouth and nostrils as he says, "My father's taken me under his wing."

My brows shoot to my hairline.

Hayden and Mr. Kingston have always had an estranged relationship, to put it lightly. Growing up, Hayden never explained it so politely, having on many occasions deemed the word hate more appropriate. On top of that, he compares corporate life to slavery, so why would he suddenly start working under his father?

A lot can change in five years, he said.

My gears hum once more. Turning, turning, turning.

In my silence, he takes another drag. "I could put in a good word with him. Make sure you get a fair shot..."

My knee bounces anxiously.

Kingston Entertainment may be a publicly traded company, with an acting board and a large array of investors, but Warren Kingston is the majority shareholder. He has the final say. In everything. Landing an audience with him, someone who decides whether a game lands a DreamScape feature, is like every game dev's wet dream.

A once in a lifetime opportunity.

An opportunity so rare that I'm tempted by Hayden's words, despite the muddy waters between our two families. Between our parents, specifically.

It wasn't apparent until I got older but, during a short window of my adolescence, my single mother was Warren's mistress. Why the two split is unknown. My mother never speaks of it, I never bring it up, and neither does my brother. As children, all we knew was, one day, we were allowed to sleep over at the Kingston's residence. Then the next, we weren't. A year later, the news buzzed with their divorce, as Hayden's mother, Sylvia, banked over ten billion in the settlement, despite their prenuptial agreement.

My mother has zero comment regarding the matter.

So, if I'm willing to sweep all that under the rug...

Hayden taps his cigarette, raining ash onto the polished mahogany, the rebellious act squirming my insides. Giving me a leisurely up and down, his eyes dance with delight. He's got me wrapped around his finger.

"Although... my father may need some extra convincing."

Oh, no. Here it comes. The final drop of the hammer, the harsh yank of the rug from under my feet, the reminder that there's a price for everything in life. With a sigh, I bite the bait, and ask the question I've been dreading all night.

"What do you want out of this?"