Chapter 4 Julian
Fucking humidity.
My suit is black, bespoke. The collar of my shirt is crisp, slightly undone, showing the top of the bite mark that blonde left me. I don’t bother with a tie. Formal, but not funereal. The cufflinks are family crest, platinum, inlaid with diamonds. Subtle flex.
I check my watch, then the entrance again.
There’s a single light on above the entry arch, making the rest of the facade look even more gothic.
At the top of the stone steps, two girls in pleated skirts linger, cigarettes burning down between their fingers.
One glances at me and I can hear the velocity of gossip spike.
If I wanted to, I could fuck either, both, or neither. I would choose neither.
Time slows. The doors open, and she steps into the frame like the first movement of a dance number.
She wears a midnight blue dress, the kind that is engineered to appear effortless.
It hugs her in all the right places, but the neckline is almost puritanical.
Her hair is up, loose pieces escaping to shadow her cheeks.
There’s a luster to her skin that makes her look untouchable, but I can see the tiny muscles in her jaw tensing as she surveys the parking lot.
She doesn’t notice me at first. Her focus is on the girls by the steps, who have paused their performance to stare at her like a rare, unclassified specimen. Amara’s hands—fine-boned, perfectly manicured—clutch her clutch in a white-knuckle grip.
I wait. Patience is everything.
When her gaze finds me, the effect is instantaneous. Her posture stutters, then sharpens, as if my presence pulled a string inside her. She hesitates at the top of the steps, then descends, each movement a negotiation between gravity and poise.
I stand as she approaches, and for a moment we are the only two that matter in the quad. Even the smokers go quiet.
“Miss Marcus,” I say, bowing my head slightly.
She slows, then stops exactly one meter from me. Her perfume is something floral with undertones of spice. It reminds me of hot apple cider. I resist the urge to lean in.
“Mr. Roth,” she returns, tipping her chin up.
Her eyes flick to my neck, then away.
I gesture toward the car, an invitation and a command in one. “Shall we?”
She doesn’t move.
“There are worse options than dinner with me,” I add, smiling. “Trust me. My mother will be in attendance. You’ll be safe.”
The word safe hangs there, a lie so blatant we both pretend not to see it.
She walks past me, and I open the passenger door.
The dress pulls taut across her hips as she slides in.
For a moment, the skin at her collarbones is bare, blue vein visible just beneath the surface.
I stare, then close the door, not without great effort.
I want o bite her skin just to see how pretty a red ring would adorn her.
In the driver’s seat, I take my time. I want her to think about the interval between doors opening and closing, about the exact moment she becomes my responsibility.
Inside, the leather is black, the dash cold to the touch. I check the mirrors; the girls on the steps are still watching. Amara buckles her seatbelt, hands folded perfectly in her lap.
I let the silence settle, then start the car. The engine is tuned to perfection and the car rumbles as it come to life.
“Do you need anything before we go?” I ask, shifting into reverse.
She shakes her head, hair barely moving. “I’m fine.”
We pull away from the curb, the world outside smeared by speed and rain-streaked glass. I drive fast, but not recklessly. There’s no thrill in risking her life. The thrill is in the control.
For a full minute, neither of us speaks.
She’s the one who cracks first.
“Is your father as awful as they say?” she asks, still looking straight ahead.
I smile. “He’s worse, but his taste in wine is flawless.”
She exhales, almost a laugh, and I feel the small satisfaction of victory.
“You’ll be fine,” I say. “He only eats the weak.”
She turns to look at me, and for the first time I see her without a filter of fear or expectation. Her eyes are blue, but in this light, almost violet.
“What does he want from me?”
I keep my eyes on the road. “Probably the same thing your father wants.”
She considers that. “Which is?”
I take the next curve a little faster. “To see how we match.”
She laughs, a real sound this time. “What if we don’t?”
I glance at her, letting the silence answer for me.
We drive on, the city giving way to a stretch of country road, the restaurant a few miles ahead.
I watch her in my peripherals. Her jaw unclenches. Her hands relax. She’s trying to present the perfect image, when deep down I know she’s a mess. I’d like to see that mess dripping down her legs instead of jumbled in her head.
The rest of the ride is silent, but not empty.
When we pull up to the restaurant, a shrine to French cuisine, all white stone and glass, I get out, circle the car, and open her door. She steps out, unsteady for a fraction of a second, then composes herself.
I offer my arm. She takes it.
Inside, the ma?tre d’ bows and let’s me know my family is already here.
They seat us in the private dining salon, the kind of room engineered for the exchange of secrets and the laundering of reputations.
Crystal hangs from the ceiling in tiers, the light refracted into cold, colorful splinters.
The table is set with white linen so thick it could double as a wedding dress, and the cutlery is heavy enough to serve as a weapon.
My father rises when we enter. He’s tall, still athletic at sixty, his face sharp lines and unfinished malice. His suit is a shade darker than mine, and the platinum signet on his finger glints when he extends his hand to Amara.
“Miss Marcus,” he says, folding her fingers into his and raising them toward his mouth. He doesn’t kiss her hand, but the implication is there—a parody of chivalry that leaves a touch of threat.
Amara’s pulse jumps at her throat, a detail I note and store away.
My mother stands, too. She is smaller than I remember, shrinking each year into her Botox armor. Her smile is perfect, but the muscles around her mouth never move. “So lovely to finally meet you,” she says.
My cousin is there, Remington. He’s some high-powered defense attorney and is last to acknowledge us. He remains slouched in his chair, the upholstery strained by his bulk. His suit fits like a straitjacket. He nods, eyes flicking from me to Amara with the unblinking chill of a trained attack dog.
“Amara. Cousin.”
He’s in a mood, probably because his latest fling wasn’t invited, but that’s life and he has a part to play.
I guide Amara to her seat and take the one at her right, so close our arms nearly brush. The waiter hovers, reciting specials none of us care about. My father orders a bottle of Bordeaux before the menu is even open.
We play at small talk. My mother asks about Amara’s classes, her adjustment to the Academy, her preferences in art and music. Amara’s answers are flawless—polite, measured, revealing nothing. She sits with her back straight and her ankles crossed, hands folded atop the table.
My father watches all of it. He doesn’t bother to mask his assessment; every blink is a measurement of her worth.
“Your achievements are impressive, Marcus has done well,” he says, eyes on me.
“I’m not sure how much credit is mine,” Amara deflects, eyes down.
My father smiles. “Modesty is rare in your generation. It’s refreshing.”
I sense the shift, the air thickening. This is what he wants—compliance, deference, a trace of fear.
He turns to me. “Julian, have you explained the terms of your relationship to Miss Marcus?”
My fingers tighten on the stem of my wine glass. “We haven’t discussed it formally.”
“Perhaps you should,” his voice is full of reproach. “She deserves to know what’s expected.”
My mother’s hand finds his wrist. She squeezes, gentle but urgent.
Amara’s lips part, but no sound comes out. I can see her mind fracturing behind her eyes, the arithmetic of survival.
I clear my throat. “We’re still getting to know each other.”
Remy snorts, loud enough to draw looks from other tables. He drains his glass in a single swallow and gestures for another.
My father shifts his gaze to Amara. “Our families have a history of productive partnerships. The Board wishes to see that tradition continue.”
She nods, mute.
“There’s nothing to fear,” he continues, the words smoothed by practice. “Julian is a capable provider. Loyal. Protective.”
My mother’s eyes flick to me, then away.
The waiter pours wine, and the conversation stalls. For a minute, we eat in silence, the only sound the clink of utensils on porcelain.
Amara’s hand trembles when she brings her glass to her lips. I touch her knee under the table, steadying her. She doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t relax, either.
My father leans back, considering. “You remind me of your mother,” he says to Amara. “She had the same discipline. The same restraint. It’s a rare quality in women these days.”
Amara’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Thank you, sir.”
He laughs, sharp. “Please. Tonight is about celebration. Not protocol. Drink. Enjoy yourself.”
She sips her wine, then sets the glass down. The stem is wet where her fingers held it.
My mother tries to revive the conversation. “Did you know Julian paints?” she says, turning to Amara. “He has a studio at the house. Some of his work has been shown in galleries.”
Amara looks at me, surprise breaking through the mask. “I didn’t. What do you paint?”
“People,” I say. “Mostly faces.”
“That’s… interesting.”
My father chuckles. “He’s always been a student of human nature.”
Remington glances at me, a smirk. He’s bored, but amused by the tension.
I lean toward Amara and in an effort to be polite, I extend an olive branch. “Would you like to see my studio sometime?”
She hesitates, then nods. “I’d like that.”
My mother looks relieved, as if this is all the proof she needs that we are compatible.