Page 38 of Once Upon a Curse for True Love (Paranormal Romance #2)

As I step inside, I half-expect to see his devastatingly handsome smirk again. But it’s just me and my tragic reflection in the mirrored walls. I jab the button for my floor harder than necessary, as if the innocent plastic were withholding vital answers I could push out of it.

The ride is mercifully solitary and uneventful, if not a little heartbreaking and panic-inducing. When the doors slide open, I take a fortifying breath and stride out. Confident. Poised. Ready to fake it until I make it.

My positive vibes shatter as Pam, the assistant I share with the other junior associates in the tech division, greets me with a too-bright smile, her eyes darting nervously.

Bad news is coming.

“Morning, Pam. What’s with the—”

“Nadine wants to see you. Right now,” she announces in a rush, confirming my suspicions.

Nadine Fox is the founder and CEO of the company. A summons from her rarely bodes well.

With a nod, I head for the stairwell, regretting my stilettos.

This morning, the heels felt like a power move against the black hole of my ill-fated feelings.

Now, they just feel impractical. But since Nadine is only two floors up, I’ll take the sore feet over another elevator ride.

Besides, the climb will help clear my head before facing whatever fresh hell awaits me in the big boss’s office.

I emerge on the top floor winded but marginally more composed. Nadine’s secretary waves me straight through.

The office is minimalist perfection, with sleek white furniture, expansive windows framing a breathtaking view of downtown, and a desk that, for all its simplicity, probably costs more than my car.

Nadine sits behind it, looking sharp in a crisp white blazer. She fixes me with her cold blue gaze, gesturing for me to sit.

“Josie, thanks for coming up.” Her tone is polite, but I detect an undercurrent of irritation. “I have some unexpected news.”

I feel like a bug about to be squashed. “Oh?”

“Missy was rushed to the hospital last night. Pregnancy complications. She’s fine,” Nadine adds, seeing my stricken reaction. “But she’s been put on bed rest until further notice.”

“That’s awful. I didn’t even know she was pregnant.” Missy is in charge of the celebrity division. We’re friendly, but not close.

“She hadn’t told anyone at the office except for me, she’s just finishing the first trimester. We were making plans to cover her maternity leave, but now everything’s been fast-tracked.”

I process the new info, not fully grasping why Nadine is telling me, but not liking where this is going.

“I’m reassigning her clients in the interim.”

“To her juniors, right?” I aim for a breezy tone, but it comes out strangled.

Nadine’s eyes dissect me like a butterfly pinned to a board. “All but one… who specifically requested you.”

Despite being born and raised in LA, I don’t know that many celebrities—just the one, in fact. Cue dread.

“Me?” I squeak. I clear my throat, trying again. “But I’m in tech PR. My clients are start-ups, not celebrities.”

“I know what division you work in, Josie.” Nadine’s tone is clipped. “But when our biggest client makes a personal request, I’m not in a position to refuse. Keeping him happy is our top priority.”

“Him?” I croak.

She steeples her fingers. “Rian Phoenix.”

I knew it. I flipping knew it.

My heart is about to explode like a shaken bottle of soda filled with Mentos.

“Did he… did Dorian—I mean, Rian—say why me?” I hate how small my voice sounds.

Nadine’s expression is unreadable. “Apparently, you made an impression during your little elevator adventure.”

I swallow, dizzy. Did he know at the party last month that I’d be working for him? He must have. From the way Nadine is talking, Missy’s emergency scare only sped up things. She was going on maternity leave anyway, and having me fill in must’ve already been the plan.

Before I can spiral too far, Nadine continues, “It goes without saying, but having romantic or sexual relations with clients is strictly forbidden. It’s not just frowned upon—it’s grounds for immediate dismissal.”

My face bursts up in flames, and I laugh, the sound high-pitched and unnatural. “Of course. I would never sleep with a married man.” And I wouldn’t. I can be in love with one. But I’d never act on my feelings, regardless of how strong.

“It doesn’t matter whether the client is married, single, or a Martian—it’s still a fireable offense,” she says coldly. “This agency’s reputation is everything. I won’t have it compromised. Have I made myself clear?”

I nod vigorously, fighting the ever-expanding blush that’s now creeping down my neck. “I understand completely. You have nothing to worry about.”

Nadine doesn’t waste time. She hands me a stack of NDAs and instructs me to transfer my current clients to my head of division because I’m starting on the new assignment right away.

“From now on, Rian Phoenix is your only priority,” she says. “Your first meeting is at his place in North Beverly Park at eleven.”

“He doesn’t come here?” I ask sheepishly.

“No, with clients of his caliber, we go to them for routine meetings. The night you met was an exception as he was flying in from New Orleans and it was more convenient to meet here.”

Ah, so celebrities don’t darken our doors unless it’s a crisis. Duly noted.

“Very well.”

I leave the office in a daze. I have two hours to hand off my clients and prepare to face the man who has haunted my dreams, my playlists, and now my career.

***

In my car, the GPS chirps instructions like this is just another drive—not a slow march into enemy territory.

Having Dorian’s home address feels invasive. Not for him, for me. I didn’t choose this.

I’m about to lift the curtain on his private life, and it seems wrong. Not that I expect piles of laundry in the corner or a fridge covered in takeout menus.

But anything involving Billie Rae might crush me.

My mind races with unwelcome images of Dorian and Billie Rae’s picture-perfect life from back in the days when I could still follow it on social media without feeling like my heart was being carved out of my chest with a spoon.

I hope she’s out of town. I didn’t even check.

If I knew for sure, maybe I could stop freaking out.

But if she’s there, I won’t survive seeing them all over each other.

Or maybe the sight will cure me of my unhealthy obsession—burn the fantasies in my head and release my heart from the hold Dorian has on it.

The GPS instructs me to keep in the left lane, and I entertain the idea of taking a wrong turn, of getting myself lost in the Hollywood Hills. But that would only delay the inevitable.

With every yard I cover, my car seems to shrink, the air pressing in denser.

As Dorian’s gates come into view, the professional in me shouts to treat this like any other client meeting.

The rest of me wonders if I’m about to be leveled by a smile.

Or will he act differently with Billie Rae present?

What if he behaves the same because he’s that charming with everyone and I was no one special?

The possibility that the connection I’ve obsessed over for the past year is nothing more than a standard interaction for him stings. It’s a reality check I desperately need, but one I’m not ready to face.

After a routine pass through security, I steer my car along the circular driveway, feeling dwarfed by the sheer size of his estate. The house has a bold geometry and sleek surfaces, easily the size of my entire condo building.

Following the guard’s instructions, I pick a random spot in the front yard and kill the engine. Bag in hand, I head to the front door, craning my neck at the stunning architecture and manicured grounds.

A uniformed housekeeper greets me at the entrance, her polite efficiency a stark contrast to the nerves jangling under my skin.

She leads me into the foyer—stylish but more lived-in than I imagined—and points me to the living room without specifying if that’s where the meeting will take place or if Dorian has a dedicated home office.

As I cross the hall, I hear the faint strumming of a guitar.

I follow the melody, stepping into a spacious, open-plan room the size of a mini apartment—I hesitate to call it a mere living room—and there he is.

Dorian is perched on a low couch, his guitar balanced on his knee as he scribbles on a music sheet laid out on the coffee table and goes back to playing.

Seeing him lost in his creative process steals the air from my lungs.

I stand frozen in the doorway, caught between awe and panic.

This is worse than if I’d walked in on him kissing his wife.

Because as of now, I’m not getting cured—the opposite.

Seeing him like this, absorbed in his music, with the late-morning sunlight casting a golden glow over his tousled hair, feels far too intimate.

My mind goes blank, grasping for the right way to announce my presence without shattering the magic of the moment.

Do I clear my throat? Knock? Or wait for him to notice me?

Or do I melt into the walls and disappear?

He’s alone. Clearly, I’m the first one here and should wait somewhere else while the rest of his team arrives.

Fleeing seems like the best solution. I back away, but my bag bumps the doorframe with a soft thud.

Dorian’s head snaps up, his icy-blue eyes lock with mine, and his face splits into a smile so bright I might actually need sunglasses.

“Morning,” he says, his fingers still idly plucking at the strings, like my arrival hasn’t thrown his rhythm at all.

I scramble to summon a professional tone, but stammer a weak, “M-morning.”

Dorian sets his guitar aside with a fluid motion, like the instrument is another limb for him, and rises from the couch.

I stare as he approaches me, his smile never wavering. As he closes the distance, the walls seem to advance on me, too. Why is every space getting smaller today?