Chapter 165: mystery and speculation about Julie
The grand entrance of the Thompson mansion glowed under a thousand lights, each chandelier raining down a cascade of brilliance.
Golden walls reflected the sheen of marble floors, and the air was thick with perfume, champagne, and murmured conversations.
But the moment Roman Thompson and the woman at his side stepped through the door, every sound shifted—muted by shock, envy, and curiosity.
Heads turned as though pulled by invisible strings.Cameras clicked in a frenzy.
The rustle of silks and velvets from the crowd stilled in hesitation, broken only by sharp intakes of breath.
"Who is she?" a man whispered, though his voice carried like smoke in the hush.
His brows knitted as he craned his neck to catch a better glimpse.
One of the women near him clutched her pearls, eyes wide. "How handsome he is. Even more so in person," she breathed, her voice trembling with admiration.
Her friends leaned closer, their eyes locked on Roman’s black tuxedo, the golden bow tie glinting like fire against the dark silk.
"Yes, indeed," another added, her voice a blend of awe and resentment.
"Roman Thompson never disappoints the Thompson reputation. But—" she leaned closer to her circle of friends, lowering her voice into a hiss—"who is she?"
Their eyes darted to Julie, radiant in her golden gown embroidered with orange stones, the shimmer clinging to her curves like sunlight caught in silk.
Her skin glowed under the chandeliers, soft and pale against the brilliance of the gown.
"No matter who she is, I don’t care—" one of the ladies said sharply, her lips pressed into a bitter line.
But another gasped, interrupting.
"Girls. Look," she whispered urgently, tilting her chin discreetly toward the couple. "I think it’s evident he is already taken. There’s no chance for anyone."
The circle of women froze, blinking in unison. "What do you mean?" they demanded, their voices colliding in chorus.
"Look at their hands."
Her words were a dagger.
Their eyes fell at once to where Roman’s long, elegant fingers intertwined tightly with Julie’s smaller, milk-pale hand. Not casually held.
Not for show. But bound in a way that made the air between them hum with something real.
One of the women gasped. Another paled.
A third’s lips trembled before she turned abruptly, her heels clicking harshly against the marble as she stormed away, unable to endure the sight.
Roman noticed. Of course, he noticed.
His dark eyes flickered once toward the crowd, not in acknowledgment but with a warning that froze the whispers on their lips.
Yet his face remained calm, serious, elegant—the perfect mask of a man who needed no approval from anyone in the room.
Julie, though aware of the whispers swirling around them, clung quietly to Roman’s side.
Her fingers tightened around his, and though she kept her eyes low, the faint blush on her cheeks betrayed her awareness of every envious gaze fixed upon her.
Together, they walked deeper into the hall, a storm of whispers rising in their wake.
The Thompson main hall stretched upward like a cathedral, its arched ceilings painted with gilded patterns and its walls draped with velvet banners.
Music drifted faintly from the string quartet in the corner, though even their practiced notes faltered as the couple passed by.
Roman’s steps were unhurried, deliberate.
His black leather shoes gleamed under the lights, echoing against the polished floor.
Julie’s gown trailed softly beside him, each step lifting the golden fabric so that it shimmered like fire spilling across the marble.
Everywhere, eyes followed.
"He didn’t even look at anyone," a man muttered, his jaw tight.
"Typical Roman," another replied bitterly. "But who is the woman that makes him ignore us all?"
The whispers chased them like shadows, but Roman spared no glance.
His hand never left Julie’s, his posture straight, his face unreadable yet commanding.
He led her with quiet confidence, a man who owned every inch of the hall but owed not a single soul within it a nod.
At the foot of the grand staircase, Julie hesitated.
The marble steps gleamed like ice, and her nerves prickled under the weight of so many stares.
She lifted her gown carefully, the orange stones sparkling as though lit from within.
Roman slipped his hand free, not to release her but to guide her differently.
His palm pressed lightly against her lower back, steadying her as though she were the only person in the world.
Julie’s heart skipped.
The warmth of his hand grounded her, made her forget the murmurs below. She glanced up at him, her lashes fluttering nervously.
His face was calm, lips curved in the faintest shadow of reassurance.
Their feet moved together, step by step, their reflections shimmering in the marble beneath them.
Julie’s breath quickened, but she matched his pace, feeling as though the world had shrunk to just the two of them and the soft rhythm of ascending.
At the top of the stairs, Roman opened a door, his motion smooth, precise.
The hinges creaked softly, revealing a room cloaked in shadows and lined with black decor.
"Walk in," he murmured, tilting his head toward the open doorway. His voice was low, steady, impossible to resist.
Julie obeyed, her gown swishing against the floor as she crossed the threshold.
Behind her, she heard the quiet click of the door closing, the noise shutting out the crowd, the whispers, the flashes of cameras.
For the first time that night, silence embraced her.
The room was handsome, somber—black walls softened with gold accents, tall drapes spilling like ink from the ceiling, and furniture polished to a dark gleam.
It carried Roman’s essence, sharp yet elegant, commanding but subdued.
Julie turned in slow wonder, her fingers brushing the back of the black leather sofa.
"Is this your room?" she asked softly, her voice carrying the faint tremor of nerves.
"Yes," Roman replied, lowering himself onto the seat beside her with effortless grace.
He leaned back, shoulders relaxed, as though he belonged not just to the room but to the very air around it.
Julie sank into the seat next to him, her golden gown pooling around her like molten sunlight against the black leather.
"It feels different," she murmured. "Like your other room at the mansion—but gloomier. Heavier."
Roman’s lips twitched at the corners. "It is mine," he said simply, his eyes studying her face, her nervous glances, the way she tried to ground herself in conversation.
Her hands tightened in her lap. "Aren’t we going to meet your relatives and friends?" she asked, voice rushed, almost pleading for distraction.
"Yes." His answer was calm, without urgency.
"Then—won’t they question why you walked straight upstairs without greeting anyone?" she pressed, her brows knitting.
He leaned slightly closer, his eyes glinting.
"Calm down. Don’t worry. No one will dare question me. And if they do, what will cross their minds is not why I left the hall—but who the beautiful woman beside me is."
Her breath caught. The compliment, spoken so smoothly, disarmed her.
She ducked her gaze, shy, a smile blooming despite her attempt to suppress it.
Roman reached up, tilting her chin with the gentlest touch until her eyes met his.
"I brought you here first," he admitted, his voice low, intimate, "so you could relax before facing them."
Her heart swelled, and her lips curved into a smile, soft and grateful. "Thank you."
Before the words fully left her mouth, Roman leaned in. The space between them vanished in a heartbeat.
His lips pressed against hers, firm but gentle, carrying the quiet certainty of a man who did not ask but claimed.
Julie’s eyes widened, surprise flickering in them like firelight. But as warmth surged through her, her lashes lowered, and she melted into the kiss.
Outside, music and murmurs filled the mansion. But here, behind the black-draped walls, only silence remained—silence, and the promise sealed in Roman’s embrace.
______
Authors note.
6. Strength doesn’t always roar—sometimes it whispers.
We imagine strength as bold speeches and dramatic victories, but often it is quiet resilience. It is Julie holding on despite her fears. It is choosing kindness when cruelty would be easier. It is forgiving yourself for mistakes and still trying again. Strength lives in silent acts no one claps for, and those acts shape you most.
7. Not every thorn deserves your attention.
In life, there will always be people like thorns—critics, manipulators, those who try to dim your light. Some battles are not worth fighting. Energy wasted on bitterness steals joy from your future. Protect your focus. Sometimes the best response to noise is silence.
8. True beauty lies not in gowns, crowns, or titles, but in peace of heart.
The world loves to dress us in labels—status, wealth, appearances. But beauty without peace is emptiness dressed in silk. Find the kind of beauty that can’t be bought: kindness, patience, authenticity. That beauty never fades.
9. Every ending is the seed of a beginning.
When one door closes, we often stand in grief staring at it, forgetting the hallway is full of other doors waiting. Life is cyclical. What feels like failure now may be the soil for your greatest growth. Don’t fear endings—they’re just disguised beginnings.
10. Guard your heart, but don’t lock it away.
It’s wise to be careful who you trust. But don’t build walls so high that no love or light can reach you. Pain will teach you caution, but healing will teach you that love—whether friendship, family, or romance—is still worth the risk.