Page 21 of Julian

“I’m sorry?” I ask, glancing at him briefly.

“The ticketing issue,” he clarifies. “We followed your advice.”

“My advice…?” The correction seems strange on my tongue, but I use it anyway.

He shifts to face me. “We assembled a dedicated response team, individual replies, named representatives, and clear refund timelines. A goodwill credit toward future games.”

My heart begins to thud. “Really?”

“It stemmed the backlash within hours,” he replies with a chuckle. “The sentiment shifted and sponsors stopped threatening to withdraw. The refund processing stabilized and all was well.”

I blink, trying to reconcile the image of myself in a customer service cubicle with the idea that my suggestion altered the trajectory of a multimillion-dollar crisis.

“I’m glad it worked out,” I say demurely.

“It worked perfectly.”

The words land with more weight than he probably intends. A warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the heater vents. Pride, yes, but also validation. For years, I answered phones and absorbed complaints and took notes no one else saw. I told myself it was data, that it would matter someday.

“Your line of thinking was not only critical but perceptive.”

No one has ever described my work that way before. Not formally. Not like that, ever. I turn my focus back to the road, because if I sit in that compliment too long, I might actually start generating some….confidence?

“I just listened to people for a living,” I reply. “You start to notice patterns.”

“You read people,” he says, and the distinction settles deep.

As the city opens ahead of us and the morning light glints off steel and glass, I tighten my grip on the steering wheel—not from nerves this time, but from resolve. I understand now, at least partially, why I’m here and whatever calculation led him to this decision, whatever instinct made him rearrange my entire life with a single call, I know one thing with absolute certainty: I cannot afford to waste it.

Chapter 6

Julian

The car glides to a stop in front of the private entrance to the Vipers’ practice facility. Harper has a light touch behind the wheel, and I take note of it the same way I take note of most things. The way a room’s entire energy shifts when business talks get tense. The speed at which a staff member responds to an unexpected question. Whether someone makes eye contact when they’re uncertain or looks away. Small signals that most people don’t bother to analyze because they’re too busy managing the obvious or thinking about themselves.

I’ve built a career on the details others overlook.

And Harper is a detail worth noting.

She’s angled slightly toward the windshield now, scanning the entrance with the same studious attention she’s given every intersection this morning. The driver’s cap is gone today—the new uniform didn’t include one—and without it, there’s nothing obscuring the beauty of her profile. She’s got the classic defining characteristics of what makes a woman gorgeous with sculpted cheekbones, full lips, and a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose that enchant me. They make her look younger than what I know her to be, because yes… I snuck a peek at her employment application Tracey had her fill out and I know she’s thirty-two. There is a quiet innocence to her expression that contrasts with the sharp practicality of her mind.

But I don’t linger on freckles and her cornflower blue eyes, because I can’t afford to get distracted by such things. Harper starts to get out of the car, but I halt her. “No need to open my door.” She freezes, stares at me with uncertainty. “I like to keep things a bit more casual.”

“Um… okay. I’ll be here if you need to go somewhere today.”

I get lost just a second staring at her, then shake it off. Before I reach for the handle, I turn her way. “You’re welcome to come inside. There are several unoccupied offices on the executive level. You wouldn’t need to sit out here.”

She blinks at me, surprised but composed. “That’s thoughtful,” she says, and I hear the careful calibration in her words. “But I’m fine here. I actually need to make a couple of calls, but I’ll be ready whenever you are.”

There’s no defensiveness in the refusal, no discomfort. She’s establishing boundaries without friction. “Very well. I shouldn’t be longer than a few hours.”

“I’ll be here,” she says brightly and then sobers for a second. “And… thank you again for the job offer. It was… well-timed for me.”

I consider that a second, because I hear a thin layer of disguised emotion running like an undercurrent. I want to ask about it, but I suspect she wouldn’t engage. I can see Harper wants to be all business, so I let it go for now.

I step out into the morning air, the door closing with a muted solidity behind me. As I walk around the front of the Range Rover, I catch a glimpse of her through the windshield. She’s already reaching for her phone, posture upright, expression focused.

She doesn’t look overwhelmed and I very much appreciate that in an employee.