CHAPTER 10
JULIAN
The resort is what one would expect: tasteful excess disguised as understated elegance. White stone pathways wind through manicured gardens. Palm trees sway in the breeze.
I invested in this property decades ago, back when it was a struggling beach club.
Now it’s one of the few resorts in the world with staff trained to accommodate guests with.
.. particular needs. The concierge who checks us in doesn’t blink at my special requests.
She simply nods and says, “Your usual arrangements have been made, Mr. Blackthorne.”
The irony isn't lost on me—Violet choosing this particular resort for her wedding.
Though “choosing” implies more agency than she actually had.
When Marcus flagged Chris's February conference in Nassau, it took one phone call to ensure the wedding planner received an “exclusive offer” on a destination package.
The kind of deal that makes brides feel lucky rather than suspicious.
Control the terrain, control the outcome. A lesson I learned centuries ago.
Poppy is too busy admiring the lobby’s orchid display to notice.
The welcome cocktail party sprawls across a terrace overlooking water so blue it looks photoshopped. This is the type of view that I missed so dearly after I got turned. Yet, here I am standing in the daylight. Not the most ideal time for a vampire.
Daylight severely weakens us. We never burst into flames like in the films. Hollywood really messed that one up.
.. actually, the Germans got it wrong and Hollywood ran with it.
Years ago, my company created a sunblock that allows us full access to the sun without losing our strength—which is needed for an event like this so I can appreciate a place so magnificent while under the threat of Damien.
Granted, we’re currently in the curated luxury for tourists.
Underneath, the Bahamas refuses to be tamed.
From somewhere behind the staff quarters, goatskin drums pulse through the evening air—Junkanoo rhythms from what sounds like a birthday celebration, cowbells and whistles threading through the resort.
The smell of conch fritters from a vendor’s cart near the service entrance cuts through the champagne and canapés, and for a moment I’m in Nassau sixty years ago, before the cruise ships swallowed the harbor whole.
I’ve attended hundreds of events like this. Charity galas. Board meetings. Corporate retreats where the wealthy pretend to be casual. This should feel familiar.
Instead, I’m searching for exits while trying to remember the last time I cared about someone else’s opinion.
Over 50 years.
My phone buzzes. A text from Marcus:
MARCUS: Feeds are live. I have eyes on the entire property. Resort security briefed and standing by. Also flagged background checks—Senator Hartford’s assistant this morning, Catherine Gable’s attorney yesterday. Standard deflection deployed. Nothing penetrates the first layer.
The digital age has made immortality more complicated.
Every decade requires new documentation, new histories, new paper trails.
I maintain seventeen identities across four continents, each with its own credit history, employment records, and social media presence managed by a team who believe they’re working for a reclusive tech billionaire with privacy concerns.
They’re not wrong. The threat is always there—it’s just usually from humans, not fellow vampires.
I type back:
ME: Good. Maintain surveillance. Alert me to any anomalies.
MARCUS: Already running facial recognition on all entry points. If Damien shows, I’ll know before he clears the lobby.
I pocket the phone. Poppy doesn’t need to know that somewhere in Los Angeles, a man she thinks is my driver is watching her through forty-seven different camera angles. Granted, I bet she looks amazing in all of those cameras as she places her hand in the crook of my elbow.
She’s been touching me since we left our suite—small, deliberate contacts she thinks look natural. They don’t, not yet, but she’s learning. Her fingers press against my forearm. Three counts in, four counts out. The breathing technique I taught her on the plane.
“That’s my sister,” she says. “The one in the white sundress.”
Violet Gable has perfect blonde hair, perfect tan, and a bright smile when she spots us. Her natural confidence is like someone who’s never questioned her place in the world.
“She seems nice,” I say, because it’s true and expected.
“She’s perfect,” Poppy corrects. “There’s a difference.”
A waiter passes with glasses of rum punch garnished with hibiscus flowers.
I recognize him—or rather, I recognize his grandfather’s face in his.
Clarence Williams served drinks at a resort here in 1987.
I spent a month here recovering from an incident in Port-au-Prince, and got to know him and his family.
His grandson has the same broad shoulders, the same easy smile.
I turn, angling away before he can get a clear look at my face.
It would be extremely hard explaining how a man who is 32 years old could have been here in ’87.
The odds he’d recognize me from an old family photograph are minimal, but minimal is not zero, and I’ve survived this long by treating minimal risks as unacceptable ones.
“Something wrong?” Poppy asks.
“Just avoiding the rum. Doesn’t agree with me.”
Violet approaches with a man in tow—the groom, I assume. Handsome in that generic way that suggests good genes and better dental work. Christopher “Chris” Morgan, according to Poppy’s briefing documents. Investment banker. Cornell graduate. Proposed with a flash mob in Central Park.
“Poppy!” Violet’s voice carries across the terrace. Several heads turn. “You made it!”
Poppy’s smile brightens. Her shoulders drop. Her grip on my arm loosens. “Of course I made it. I wouldn’t miss your wedding for anything.”
They embrace. I watch Poppy’s face over Violet’s shoulder—eyes closed a fraction too long, tension visible before she pulls back.
“And you must be Julian.” Violet turns that smile on me. “Poppy’s been so mysterious about you. I was starting to think you were imaginary.”
“Very real,” I assure her. I extend my hand. Her grip is firm, confident. “Thank you for including me in your celebration.”
“Are you kidding? I’m dying to meet the man who got my sister off those dating apps.” Violet laughs. “She’s been so private about her love life. We were starting to worry.”
Poppy’s fingers slightly dig into my forearm. I cover her hand with mine.
“I prefer to keep certain things private,” I say. “At least until I’m certain they’re worth sharing.”
“And now?” Violet’s eyes sparkle.
I look at Poppy. She’s watching me with hope and terror in equal measure. “Now I’m certain.”
The words come easier than they should.
Chris introduces himself. We shake hands. He has the grip of someone who read an article about power dynamics and took it too seriously. I adjust my pressure to match—firm but not threatening, confident but not aggressive. He relaxes.
“Poppy mentioned you’re in tech,” Chris says. “What sector?”
“Various interests. AI development, primarily. Some biotech ventures.” Vague. Specific details invite follow-up questions. “Nothing as exciting as investment banking.”
He laughs. “You’d be surprised how boring it can be. Though the market’s been interesting. I don’t suppose you have any insights on the Blackthorne acquisition rumors?”
Poppy makes a small noise. I squeeze her hand.
“I make it a policy not to discuss business at weddings,” I say. “It ruins the romance.”
“Speaking of romance—” A new voice cuts through. Sharp. Polished. Used to being heard. “Poppy, darling. You look wonderful.”
Catherine Gable approaches—smooth, expensive, impossible to ignore. She’s what Poppy will look like in thirty years if the warmth gets trained out of her. Same blue eyes, same delicate features, but refined until perfect and cold.
“Mom.” Poppy’s brightness turns brittle with a forced smile. “This is Julian.”
Catherine studies me. I’ve been evaluated by venture capitalists, board members, hostile takeover specialists.
This is different. She looks at me the way art authenticators examine potential forgeries—searching for the brushstroke that doesn’t belong, the anachronistic pigment, the detail that betrays the lie.
“Julian Blackthorne,” I say, offering my hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Gable.”
“Catherine, please.” Her grip is cool, brief. “Blackthorne. Unusual name. British, right?”
“Yes, a long time ago. Before my times.”
“How long ago, exactly?” She tilts her head. “I’m something of an amateur genealogist.”
I maintain my smile. Catherine Gable isn’t just protective—she’s done research. The dossier request my security team flagged wasn’t casual due diligence.
“My grandfather was very private,” I say. “It wasn’t something he liked to discuss.”
“How convenient.” Her eyes don’t leave mine. “And what might you do, Julian?”
“I run a technology company. Nothing as impressive as raising two accomplished daughters.”
Catherine’s expression softens. Barely. “Well. At least Poppy’s found someone with a real career. After all that time invested in her little internet hobby, I was starting to worry.”
Poppy goes rigid beside me.
“Her internet hobby,” I repeat. “You mean her business that reaches a million people daily and generates substantial revenue through brand partnerships and creative content?”
Catherine blinks. “Well, I wouldn’t call it—”
“A business? Because that’s what it is. Poppy has built something from scratch.
No investors, no safety net. Just talent, discipline, and instinct for what resonates with people.
” I turn to Poppy. Her eyes are wide. “I find it fascinating. The way she’s monetized the connection she has with her audience.
That’s not an easy feat in a digital landscape that rewards performance over substance. ”
“I—” Poppy starts.