Chapter 7
I couldn’t stop staring at the photograph in my hands. Jules. The mysterious man who’d saved my life twice was now supposed to be my future husband? The coincidence seemed too perfect, too orchestrated.
“Jules Prime. You know him?” Father asked, noticing my reaction.
I hesitated, unsure how to explain. “I… we’ve met. Briefly,”
‘Oh?” Mother leaned forward, suddenly interested.
I traced the outline of Jules‘ face in the photo with my fingertip. “He saved my life. Twice, actually, Once when Hank pushed me into traffic, and again when I was…” I swallowed hard. ‘When I was stabbed.”
Father’s expression darkened again at the mention of the stabbing. “I’m still upset that I didn’t know that part.”
‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry,” I admitted. “But yes, Jules was there both times. He pulled me from the path of a car, and later, he shot the man who stabbed me and rushed me to the hospital.”
My parents exchanged a meaningful look I couldn’t quite decipher.
‘I’d like to meet him,” I said suddenly. “Properly, I mean. Not just while I’m bleeding out on the pavement.”
Father nodded, a small smile playing at his lips. “I’ll arrange it. How about tomorrow?”
‘Tomorrow?” My heart skipped a beat. So soon?
‘Unless you need more time to-”
‘No,” I interrupted. “Tomorrow is perfect.”
The café Father had chosen was quiet and elegant, with soft jazz playing in the background and the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans filling the air. I arrived early, choosing a table by the window where I could watch for Jules‘ arrival.
My fingers tapped nervously against the ceramic mug. What would I say to him? Thank you for saving my life–twice? Sorry you had to see me covered in blood? By the way, apparently we’re Jetting married?
The door opened, and my breath caught in my throat.
Jules was even more striking in daylight than in my fragmented memories. Tall and broad–shouldered, he moved with the confident grace of a predator. His tailored suit fit him perfectly, accentuating his athletic build. But it was his eyes that captivated me–dark, intense, and somehow both cold and burning at once.
He scanned the café, and when his gaze landed on me, something in his expression shifted. The corner of his mouth curved up in a smile that made my pulse quicken.
I stood as he approached, extending my hand. “Mr. Jules. Thank you for meeting me.”
Instead of taking my hand, he gently pulled me into an embrace. The sudden closeness sent a
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but somehow,
jolt through me–his cologne, subtle and masculine, the solid warmth of his chest against mine. I should have been uncomfortable with this familiarity from a virtual stranger,
wasn’t.
“Monica,” he said, his voice deep and rich. “It’s good to see you vertical for once.”
The unexpected humor broke the tension, and I laughed as we both sat down.
“How are your wounds?” he asked, his eyes serious now.
“Healing well,” I replied. “The doctors say I was lucky.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” he said with quiet intensity. “You’re stronger than you know.”
The conversation flowed easily after that. We talked about our interests–he was passionate about architecture and martial arts, while I shared my love for literature and painting. He listened attentively, asking thoughtful questions that showed genuine interest rather than polite obligation.
It wasn’t until our second cup of coffee that I finally gathered the courage to ask what had been bothering me.
“Jules,” I began, “how did you happen to be there both times I needed help? It seems like an
incredible coincidence.”
He laughed, a rich sound that warmed something inside me. “Coincidence? Perhaps.”
I leaned forward, studying his face. “I’d like to believe that, but it’s too hard to be true.”
Jules shifted, closing the distance between us. His eyes locked with mine, so intense I almost looked away. Almost.
“You think so?” he asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
1 mirrored his posture, drawn to him like a moth to flame, and nodded. “I do.”
“What if it wasn’t?” The question hung between us, charged with something I couldn’t name.
“I’m not complaining,” I said softly. “I’m just intrigued.”
Jules extended his hand across the table, palm up. An invitation. “Then would you let me show you how? And why?”
The air between us crackled with electricity. His gaze never wavered from mine, and I felt heat rise to my cheeks. Something about this man made me feel simultaneously vulnerable and powerful, afraid and fearless.
“How will you show me that?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
“Come with me,” he said, his fingers still outstretched toward mine. “Stay with me. By the day we marry, you’ll know why and how.”
The directness of his proposal should have shocked me, but instead, it sparked something deep within–curiosity, desire, or perhaps both. This man was dangerous, not in the way Hank had been, but in a way that promised to change everything.
“I’ll be watching, Mister Jules,” I said, placing my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine, warm and strong. “Please do, Miss Monica.”
The evening had descended while we talked, painting the sky in deep purples and blues. Jules led me outside, then paused.
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“Wait here by the road,” he said gently. “I don’t want you walking too far with those stitches. I bring the car around.”
The concern in his voice made me feel strangely cherished. I nodded and watched as he strode away, his silhouette cutting a sharp figure against the twilight.
The street was quiet, more isolated than crowded. I wrapped my arms around myself against the evening chill, glancing in the direction Jules had disappeared.
The rumble of an engine broke the silence. A battered car pulled up behind me, music blaring from its open windows. The men inside leered at me, their faces flushed with alochol
“Hey, sweetheart,” one called out. “Need a ride? We’ll show you a good time!”
I ignored them, turning away and starting to walk in the direction Jules had gone.
The car crept alongside me. “Come on, don’t be like that. Get in, you stuck–up slut!”
My pace quickened despite the pain in my abdomen. Where was Jules?
Tires screeched as the car jerked to a stop. A door slammed, and heavy footsteps approached from behind.
Before I could break into a run, rough fingers closed around my wrist, yanking me backward.
