Switched Bride, True Luna - Chapter 68: Chapter 68

Emily
When the glossy magazine arrived that morning, tucked beneath a thin bundle of legal briefs, I rolled my eyes and set it aside.
It was probably another staged narrative approved by Logan’s PR team, full of polite lies and curated images.
I left it untouched while I sipped my tea, letting the steam rise and curl into the soft light streaming across the sitting room.
But curiosity was a slow, persistent thing. Eventually, I unfolded the pages. I wasn’t prepared to like the article.
The headline wasn’t mocking or even the least bit suspicious. “The Alpha and His Anchor: How Titanfang’s Power Couple Is Changing the Narrative.” The subtext made me wince—power couple—but the tone was surprisingly… gentle. Admiring, even.
There were quotes from anonymous staffers, phrases like “genuine connection” and “she brings out something softer in him.” Photos too, stolen from a distance. Not the formal events or stiff diplomatic meetings, but the in-betweens.
There was one from the artisan fair, where I was laughing at something Logan said. He was looking at me with something in his eyes I couldn’t name.
Another photo showed us walking through the old garden paths, barely brushing shoulders, the late sunlight turning his hair to bronze and casting half my face in gold.
I should’ve hated it. Should’ve tossed it into the bin for being too intrusive.
But I didn’t. Because in those images, we didn’t look contractually obligated. We looked like a real couple.
A soft knock pulled me out of my thoughts. I folded the magazine closed, trying not to appear flustered. “Come in.”
Julian entered with his usual effortless composure, carrying a tray with several pieces of mail in one hand and—of course—a second copy of the magazine tucked beneath them.
“I take it you’ve already seen it?” he asked, setting the tray on the small side table near the window.
“Hard to miss,” I murmured.
“It’s everywhere,” he said, eyes practically glowing. “Social feeds, Pack news, even the morning podcast opened with it. The photo by the fountain, that’s the one they keep reposting. You looked…” He caught himself, smiled. “Well. You looked happy.”
I smoothed the hem of my sweater. “It was a good lighting day.”
Julian laughed politely and sat at the edge of the small chair without waiting for an invitation.
“Everyone says the piece is tasteful. Respectful. And honestly, you two—” He paused, tilting his head. “It just reads… authentic. Was it the garden terrace? The photo where he’s brushing your hair back?”
My pulse skipped. “I didn’t realize they caught that.”
“They did,” he said, voice low. “It looks so romantic.”
That was the problem. It was. And it was genuine, not staged either.
Julian watched me carefully as I flipped the magazine closed again, tapping the corner against my knee. I could feel the weight of his expectation pressing in.
“You and Logan…” he began, as if floating the words out carefully. “I mean, if it’s not too bold—are things as amazing as they look from the outside?”
My expression didn’t falter. “We work well together.”
“Of course,” he said quickly, backpedaling. “I didn’t mean to pry. Just—there’s genuine admiration out there. People want to see something real. Especially now.”
I offered a smile, light and meaningless. “I’m sure they do.”
Julian nodded, then stood, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “I brought the property ledgers for your review. The legal team’s meeting is still at two?”
“Yes.”
“Would it help if I stayed to help organize the rest? I have a free hour, and I’ve already sorted most of the claims history into searchable tabs.”
I hesitated. He was being helpful. Kind. Efficient. And yet, something in his eagerness wrapped itself around my ribs and squeezed. And not in a good way.
Still, I nodded. “That would be great.”
He smiled; charming, deferential, exactly the right amount of helpful.
But as I watched him move to the filing cabinet, I realized something else: I was going to double-check everything when he left.
Julian left to grab lunch and by the time he returned, the sun had shifted to the other side of the building, casting golden slants across my office floor.
I had pulled most of the financial documents from storage—two boxes’ worth of ledgers, land transfer records, and handwritten correspondences stuffed into aging folders.
“I thought you said you’d already sorted these,” I teased lightly as Julian stepped in, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, tie loosened just enough to appear approachable.
“I did,” he said with a grin. “That was before I saw you’d unearthed the entire ancestral archive.”
I returned his smile, measured and polite. “Welcome to my chaotic legacy.”
He set down a folder and began pulling the tabs from one of the boxes without hesitation, flipping efficiently through property deeds and allocation requests.
His movements were smooth, practiced—but not in the way that came from routine. In the way that came from preparation.
“I’ve always admired how you handle this,” he said after a beat. “Most people in your position would delegate. Especially with the pressure you’re under.”
“I’ve delegated before,” I said, eyes scanning a line of old expense reports. “Didn’t go well.”
Julian chuckled. “Fair. But still—you’ve carried this whole thing on your shoulders. Lawsuit, Pack expectations, media chaos, and now… this.” He gestured loosely toward the closed magazine on the corner of my desk.
My expression didn’t change, but my fingers tensed around the edge of the folder.
“‘This’,” I echoed.
Julian tilted his head, still sorting. “You and Logan. You’ve managed the scrutiny so gracefully. There’s strength in that”
There was something too polished in the way he said it. A rehearsed elegance. The kind of compliment meant to flatter without tipping the scales too far.
“Logan’s always been more accustomed to the spotlight,” I said mildly. “I just happen to stand near him a lot.”
Julian smiled, but this time it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I’m sure it’s more than that.”
We worked in silence for a few minutes, papers rustling between us. I noticed how he found files quickly, sometimes too quickly. As if he already knew which box each document lived in. As if this wasn’t his first pass through them.
He handed me a slim folder labeled Blackwood Pack – Land Transfers, Sealed Records. Our fingers brushed. He pulled back immediately, clearing his throat.
“Sorry,” he said with that sheepish chuckle he used so well. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t.”
But my wolf stirred slightly in the back of my mind—not fully present, but pacing again. Still dormant, still broken, but watching. That was enough for me to start listening harder.
Julian cleared his throat again and stood straighter. “You’ve got everything you need for the meeting now. I’ll leave you to prep.”
I rose to see him out. “Thanks for your help.”
“Of course.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “If you need anything else… you know where to find me.”
“I do,” I said, smiling tightly. “And I’ll keep that in mind.”
Once he was gone, I stood in the stillness for a long moment. The scent of his cologne still hung faintly in the air.
I walked to the filing cabinet, knelt, and opened the bottom drawer. Everything looked untouched. But I checked anyway. Page by page.
Then I relocked the cabinet, slid the key back into my pocket, and sat down at the desk.
I didn’t trust him. Not yet.
And the worst part was, he was good—just good enough to make me want to.