"You would have figured it out, but it seemed simpler to intervene."
"Still. I appreciate it." I glanced up at him. "I'm sorry if I interrupted your evening. I was supposed to meet a friend here, it's my first time at The Orpheum.” I rambled, “But she never showed up. I should probably just go home and stop pretending I belong in a place like this."
We paused at a velvet rope where another hostess nodded respectfully. "Mr. Thorne," the woman said with a smile as she let us pass. "Your party is ready upstairs."
His gloved fingers rested lightly at the small of my back, guiding rather than forcing, yet I felt every precise point of contact.
"Your first time?" he asked as we followed the hallway to a decadent staircase. "Then I definitely can't let you leave with a bad impression. The Orpheum's reputation couldn't survive a one-star review from someone who got abandoned by her friend and harassed at the bar."
Despite everything, I found myself smiling at the obvious absurdity. "Somehow I don't think this place is worried about Yelp reviews."
"You'd be surprised. Even exclusive establishments have feelings."
I chuckled as we climbed the curved staircase to what was clearly a more exclusive level—fewer people, softer lighting, an atmosphere of hushed luxury that made the main floor seem almost crowded by comparison.
He guided me toward a private dining room with its doors still open and I could see the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and several people sitting around an intimate table.
Before we reached the entrance to the room, he paused and turned to face me.
"Would you like to join us for dinner?" he asked. "It's technically a business meeting, but I'd be remiss if I didn't ensure someone had a proper first experience at The Orpheum."
"I don't want to intrude," I said quickly, glancing past him into the room where I could see his dinner companions—beautiful, polished people who belonged in spaces like this. "You clearly have business to discuss, and I'm just—"
"You're just someone who deserves better than being stood up and harassed," he said simply. "Consider it my contribution to salvaging your evening."
I looked back at him, at the way he was watching me with something that looked almost like anticipation.
"What kind of business meeting?" I asked.
"The kind where people say things they think will make them sound smarter," he said with a slight smile. "Which is why your perspective might be... refreshing."
I should say no. Should take the safe option, go home to my apartment and my stack of ungraded papers and pretend this surreal evening had never happened.
Instead, I heard myself say, "I'd like to stay."
His smile widened, transforming his entire face. "Good. I was hoping you'd say that."
"Thank you," I said quietly as we walked. "I don't know what would have happened if—"
"Nothing would have happened." His voice was matter-of-fact. "Miguel had been watching the situation. He would have intervened if necessary. But this seemed simpler."
"Still. Thank you."
He glanced down at me, and I caught something that might have been curiosity in his expression. "What's your name?"
"Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Vivienne. Vivienne Ellis."
"Julian Thorne."
The name hit me like a small electric shock. Of course he was. Now that I was safe and not worried about getting out of a potentially dangerous situation, it was clear as day.
Not only had I heard of him before, I’d seen his name in countless magazines and fashion blogs. Julian Thorne, the famously reclusive designer behind Thorne Atelier. The man whose designs dressed celebrities and royalty, who built fashion empires from shadows and refused most interviews.
Julian Thorne just rescued me from drunk frat boys.
"I know who you are," I said, then immediately felt foolish. "I mean, I know of you. Your work."
"Do you?" There was something in his tone I couldn't interpret. "That's... unexpected."
