The Billionaire Heir's Secret Disguised Queen

Before Juliette could fully settle into the stance, a chaotic blur shoved through the crowd.

Phoebe Chandler, Juliette's roommate, slammed a half-empty iced coffee onto the counter. She was breathing hard, her eyes blazing.

Phoebe stepped directly in front of Juliette, shielding her. She pointed a finger right at Blair's face.

"Picking on an ag-major with your fancy toys?" Phoebe yelled. "You're pathetic!"

Blair rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "Oh look, the dirt-girl needs her mommy. If you're so brave, why don't you shoot for her?"

Phoebe, who had grown up on a Texas ranch and spent 80 hours a week playing first-person shooters, puffed out her chest.

She snatched a spare air pistol off the rack. "Gladly."

Juliette's eyes widened in panic. She grabbed Phoebe's sleeve. "Phoebe, wait. That's a competition pistol. The trigger pull is completely different from a video game."

Phoebe waved her off confidently. "Relax, Jules. I'm a sniper in Call of Duty. Ten meters is a joke."

Gregory burst into loud, obnoxious laughter. "You think a video game makes you a shooter? This is gonna be hilarious."

Phoebe glared at Gregory. "Shut up, frat boy."

She stepped up to the line. She threw her body into a ridiculous, exaggerated Hollywood action pose. She squeezed one eye shut, took entirely too long to aim, and yanked the trigger hard.

Because she jerked her finger, the muzzle flipped violently upward.

Bang.

The pellet completely missed the paper target, sailed high, and slammed into the metal protective casing above the electronic screen with a loud, ringing CLANG.

The entire bay erupted into hysterical laughter.

Blair laughed so hard she had to lean on Sierra. "That is the most pathetic thing I have ever seen!"

Phoebe's face turned bright red. She slowly lowered the gun, her bravado completely shattered. She shuffled back to Juliette, staring at her shoes. "The sights are definitely bent," she mumbled.

Blair wiped a tear from her eye. "Alright, playtime is over. Get up there and take your zero, dirt-girl."

Juliette looked at her humiliated best friend.

The last shred of her fear evaporated, incinerated by pure, protective fury.

She gently pushed Phoebe aside. She took three long strides and planted her feet at the shooting line.

Her eyes were dead cold, but her hands still carried a slight, involuntary tremor from the adrenaline spike.

Adrian saw the tremor. He didn't hesitate.

He stepped up behind her again, his massive frame completely enveloping hers. He effectively blocked out the laughing crowd, creating a private, silent bubble for just the two of them.

He reached around her. His large, warm hands covered her cold, shaking ones.

The heat of his palms immediately stopped her trembling.

"Don't be afraid," Adrian whispered, his voice a low, steady anchor in the chaos. "I'm right here."

Juliette's heart skipped a beat. The rigid tension in her spine melted as she leaned back slightly into his solid chest.

Adrian's long fingers slowly adjusted her grip. He moved with deliberate slowness, his callouses dragging against her skin, creating a stark contrast against the cold metal of the gun.

Blair sneered from behind them. "Hugging the gun won't make it shoot straight!"

Adrian ignored her completely. He tilted his head, his nose brushing against Juliette's hair.

"Drop your right shoulder," he instructed softly.

Juliette took a slow, deep breath. She closed her eyes. She let the darkness swallow the noise, the insults, and the pressure.

When her eyes snapped open, the innocent, confused agriculture student was gone.

Her gaze was razor-sharp, filled with the terrifying, absolute focus of an apex predator.

Adrian felt the instantaneous shift in her aura. A thrill of dark excitement shot through his veins.

He slowly loosened his grip on her hands. He took a deliberate half-step back, leaving her standing alone at the line.

The stage was hers.

Juliette raised her right arm, locking her elbow into a perfect, unshakeable line. She stared down the barrel at the center of the target.