Chapter 32
Juliet
I’m still floating from our weekend at the cabin when I find the package outside our door Sunday morning. It’s addressed to me, postmarked locally, but there’s no return address. My name is on the package, but I don’t recognize the handwriting.
Inside I find a handwritten note and a manila envelope that feels heavy with whatever’s inside.
The note makes my blood run cold.
Dear Miss Monroe,
I hope this letter finds you well. My name is Darla Huxley and I believe you know my son. I’ve been following your relationship with great interest. I think it’s time we had a conversation.
There are things about Hunter you should know. I could tell you stories that might help you understand why he is the way he is. My son always needs saving from himself.
I have some materials I think you’d find illuminating. Perhaps we could meet for coffee? I’m sure we have much to discuss regarding Hunter’s future.
A mother knows her son best, after all.
Sincerely,
Darla Huxley
My hands are shaking by the time I finish reading. I can’t believe any mother would do this to her own son. Would reach out to someone in his life to... what? Sabotage him? Control him?
The envelope contains photos, printouts, and what looks like documentation of every mistake Hunter’s ever made.
There are a few legal papers from the money situation he told me about.
Screenshots of old social media posts, too.
Plus some photos from college parties that paint him in the worst possible light.
It’s blackmail material. Pure and simple.
There are notes in the margins, Darla’s handwriting pointing out details, spinning narratives, building a case against her own child. It’s methodical. Calculated. Devastating.
And it’s clearly meant to scare me away.
I don’t hesitate. I grab the envelope and march into the living room where Hunter is drinking coffee and scrolling through his phone.
“We need to talk,” I say, dropping the package on the coffee table in front of him.
He looks up, confused, then sees his mother’s handwriting on the note. For a moment, he doesn’t react at all. He stares at it like it’s a bomb that might go off.
I see it hit him. A flicker of shame crosses his face. His shoulders shift, curling inward like he’s trying to make himself smaller. I recognize that movement; it’s almost like looking in the mirror.
“Fuck. Juliet, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you got dragged into this. I never wanted her anywhere near you.”
I cut him off before he can keep apologizing. “Do you think I deserved it when Patrick said cruel things about me?”
He looks stunned. “What? No. Fuck no.”
“Then why would you think I want you to deal with this alone? I mean, it’s clearly bullshit.”
He stares at me, something shifting in his expression.
“I may not be your real fiancée,” I mumble. “But I’m your real something. Right?”
That’s the moment everything changes. I can see the way his walls crumble. He stops trying to protect me from this and starts letting me in.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “You’re my real something, Monroe.”
He opens up then. Quietly. Honestly.
“My mom would call me crying,” he says, staring at his hands.
“You know, after she got caught stealing from me. She’d tell me she was proud of me, and say that she just wanted to help manage my money so I could focus on hockey.
Then she’d guilt me about not trusting my family.
She was beyond hurt that I’d even question her motives. ”
There’s no anger in his voice now. It’s more of a deep grief. He shakes his head as though he still can’t believe it. I grip his hand, trying to let him know that he’s not alone.
“When it all came out, she didn’t even deny it. She just said I made it easy by being so trusting. Like it was my fault for believing her.” He looks up at me. “Part of me still thinks maybe she was right.”
I’m devastated listening to this. I’m seeing this side of him I never imagined. Not the public version. Not the reckless, angry man.
Someone gentle, maybe wounded even. Someone who’s still standing despite everything.
“She wasn’t right,” I say firmly. “What she did was unforgivable.”
“But she’s still my mom.”
“Being someone’s mother doesn’t give you the right to destroy them. What your mom did was more than just stealing money from you.” I take a deep breath. “She stole your ability to trust, Hux. Your ability to let strangers in, if it ever existed, was just nuked by her greed.”
We sit in silence for a moment, processing. Then he laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“You know what’s funny? I told you in college that you weren’t the type guys go for. Too uptight.”
“Yeah, I remember.” The sting of those words, the way they confirmed every insecurity I had about myself. “And I told you that you were just another hockey player looking to get laid. That not every girl was going to fall at your feet.”
“I deserved it.”
I shrug. “We were both assholes. We were kids.” I pause. “Though I wasn’t wrong about the getting laid part.”
He actually laughs at that, and some of the tension breaks. “Fair point. If you’d have even looked my way, I’d have made sure you knew I was more than a little interested.”
“How? By giving me a noogie?” I tease.
He looks at me with a sparkle in his eye, like I’m the most interesting thing in the room. That’s mildly terrifying. If Hunter ever sees the authentic version of me, he won’t look at me like that anymore. I frown.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“Nothing good.”
“Tell me anyway.”
I study his face, seeing genuine curiosity there. Not the polite interest people show when they’re trying to be nice. He has a sincere desire to understand.
“I’m thinking about how you look at me. It seems like you actually want to know me. And that scares me, because the real me isn’t always very nice.”
“I’ve seen you not be nice, Juliet. You’re ruthless when you need to be. It’s one thing I like about you.”
“You say that now.”
“I’ll say it later too.”
“You are just saying things because you want to get in my pants later.”
“Honestly, Monroe.” His blue-gray eyes spear me. “I wouldn’t do that. One of the best things about being around you is the complete lack of lying about who you are. I like that when I’m looking at you, you don’t put up walls or make up stories.”
He cups my jaw. I run my fingers along his hand, gulping.
“Do you think most people aren’t real?” I ask gently.
“I don’t know.” He brushes a hair back behind my ear, being unbearably sweet.
“If I were being truthful, I’d say that I haven’t let anyone close to me in a very long time.
But you’ve worked your way under my skin.
It turns out it’s not terrible. It’s…” He pauses.
“Pretty great. You’re pretty great, Firecracker. ”
I swallow, gripping his hand, scanning his face. He seems to be completely honest at this moment. Sucking in a breath, I blow it out slowly.
I can feel something shifting between us. Some barrier that we both held up crumbles and falls away. Without really thinking about it, I reach down and slip off my heels. Then I go to the bathroom and wash off my lipstick, staring at my bare face in the mirror.
I’m ready to take this chance. Hunter may not like the real me, the Juliet with no lipstick and no heels. But… what if he does?
When I come back, Hunter is watching me with something soft and intense in his expression.
“This is how I want it to be between us,” I say. “No artifice. Just skin against skin.”
He stands and comes to me, his hands finding my face, thumbs brushing across my bare lips.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he says. “You’re beautiful all the time, but like this... this is just for me.”
I bite my lip, lead him by the hand, and lower him to the couch.
We sink together into the crisp leather.
His knee presses against my thigh for a moment, and I can feel the heat even through my skirt.
I’m still humming with adrenaline. Not from the confrontation with his mother, but from the way we stripped ourselves bare in front of each other.
No more fucking walls up. No more pretense. Just two hurt animals licking each other’s wounds. Hunter leans back. I savor the anticipation sitting heavy between us. He’s watching me, wild and wary, like he’s waiting for me to flinch or run.
Instead, I plant my knees on either side of his, straddling him, and slowly unzip his hoodie from my body. It pools behind me on the couch, leaving me in nothing but a thin black lace bra and my tight black skirt. He’s seen me naked before, but not like this.
Not stripped of all my makeup, my heels kicked away, my hair still damp from the bathroom sink and falling wild around my face. I look down at him, waiting for a reaction. For any sign that he misses the polished, packaged version.
Hunter’s eyes go impossibly dark. His jaw tightens and I can see the vein in his neck straining.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper. “You’re killing me.”
It’s my turn to shake. For all my bravado, I have no idea how to be vulnerable like this. I climb off his lap and sink to my knees between his legs, my palms running up his thighs, tracing the heavy muscle and the faint ridges of old scars. I feel him shudder beneath my touch.
I lean in and kiss his lips once, almost chaste, a thank-you for letting me in. Then I move to his neck, kissing the rough stubble there, inhaling the scent of his skin, the burnt vanilla of his cologne mixed with sweat and something uniquely him.
I tug his Henley up and he shrugs it off smoothly, leaving his chest bare to the waist. He is so fucking beautiful it’s unreal.
I run my hands up his sides, marveling at the heat and the way his body tenses with every touch.
He sits perfectly still, hands gripping the edge of the couch like I might disappear if he moves too fast. I take his hands and place them on my weighty breasts, guiding his palms to cup me.
I want him to explore the difference between the world’s version of Juliet Monroe and the one kneeling in front of him now.
He doesn’t need instruction. He rolls my nipples between his rough fingers, pinching and tugging until the peaks go tight and achy, sending shockwaves of sensation straight to my core.
I want him to touch me everywhere, but this is enough for now.
This is about undoing all the years I spent being untouchable, unreachable, untouchable.
I arch my back, head falling, and he laughs quietly, the sound low and reverent.
“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You’re so fucking perfect.”
I look up at him. “I’m not perfect.” My voice comes out smaller than I’d like. “No one’s ever accused me of that before.”
He grins. “They should have. Were you kneeling and looking up at them with those fuck-me eyes?”
I smirk and slide his sweatpants down, hooked on my fingers.
He lifts himself up to help, slipping his boxer briefs off too.
Hunter’s cock springs out, already flushed and straining.
For a second I just stare at it, at him, at the contrast between the size of my hands and the sheer massiveness of his thick cock.
It’s long, pink, thick, and I can’t quite close my fingers around the tip. Metal winks at me from where he’s pierced; his entire cock is a walking red flag. One that I’m hungry for.
His dick is intimidating. Not just that, but it’s absurd. If this were any other moment, I’d try to make some cutting joke about overcompensation. But right now I just want to worship the fact that he’s here, he’s real, and for the moment, he’s mine.