CHAPTER 10 #2
“Though I suppose it’s easy to dismiss what we don’t understand,” I continue. “I made that mistake early in my career. Underestimated the power of genuine connection. It cost me several ventures before I learned better.”
Catherine’s smile freezes. She’s not just offended. She’s taking notes.
“Well,” she says. “Lovely that you’re so supportive. Though I hope Poppy’s considering more stable options for the future. The internet is so fickle.”
“So is everything worth doing. Risk is just opportunity in different clothing.”
Violet looks delighted. Chris looks confused.
Poppy’s hand trembles against my arm.
A waiter passes with champagne. I take two glasses and hand one to Poppy. Her fingers brush mine and linger.
“Excuse us,” I say. “I promised Poppy we would tour the grounds before dinner.”
We follow a stone path toward the beach, passing a groundskeeper trimming sea grape hedges. The Junkanoo drums have faded, replaced by the whisper of casuarina pines and waves crashing against the reef.
The sun is setting. The sky bleeds orange and pink.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Poppy says.
“Do what?”
“Defend me. My work. You’re being paid to be my boyfriend, not my publicist.”
“I’m being paid to be convincing. A man who’s genuinely interested in you would defend what matters to you.” I glance at her. “Besides, your mother was wrong. What you’ve built is impressive.”
“You don’t have to pretend when it’s just us.”
“I’m not pretending.”
She stops walking. Turns to face me. The sunset catches in her hair, turning it copper and gold. “Julian—”
“Preston’s here.”
The words come out before I’ve decided to speak them. I caught his scent ten minutes ago—cologne, self-satisfaction, and something that makes my teeth clench.
Poppy’s shoulders rise. Her smile becomes armor. “Where?”
“Up near the bar. Don’t look.”
She looks anyway. A man in linen pants and a shirt that cost three hundred dollars but looks like clearance rack.
Handsome in that aggressively casual way—hours of grooming disguised as effortlessness.
The woman beside him is what I expect: willowy, serene, wearing enough crystals to open a metaphysical shop.
“That’s Serenity,” Poppy says. Flat. “She teaches hot yoga and makes her own kombucha.”
“Of course she does.”
“They look happy.”
They do. Preston’s hand is on the small of Serenity’s back. She’s laughing at something he said. Easy intimacy.
“Poppy—”
“I’m fine.” She straightens. “We should go say hello. Get it over with.”
“We don’t have to—”
“Yes, we do. That’s why you’re here.” She takes my hand. Her palm is clammy. “Come on. Time to earn your rate.”
The bitterness cuts deeper than it should.
Preston sees us. His smile falters before recovering. “Poppy. Wow. You look great.”
“Thanks.” Poppy’s grip tightens. “Preston, Serenity, this is Julian. Julian, this is my ex-fiancé and his girlfriend.”
“Fiancée,” Serenity corrects. She holds up her left hand. A raw crystal wrapped in copper wire. “Preston proposed last month. During a sound bath ceremony.”
“How... resonant,” I say.
Poppy makes a sound—laugh or sob, I can’t tell. I pull her closer.
Preston’s eyes narrow. “Julian. I don’t think Poppy mentioned you.”
“We’ve been keeping things quiet. Poppy values her privacy.”
“Since when?” Preston laughs. “She posts everything online.”
“She posts what she chooses to share. There’s a difference.”
Serenity touches Preston’s arm. “I’m sure Poppy’s learned to be more selective about what she shares. Social media can be so toxic with influencers that share too much trying to have an authentic connection.”
“Poppy’s good at authentic connection,” I say. “It’s her gift.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—” Serenity’s eyes widen. “I love Poppy’s content. So aspirational.”
“Aspirational,” Poppy repeats. “Right.”
Preston shifts his weight. “So, Julian. How did you two meet?”
“Mutual connections. The specifics aren’t as interesting as the result.”
“Which is?”
I look at Poppy. She’s watching me with an expression I can’t read. “Finding someone who makes me want to be less careful.”
The words surprise me. Too honest. Too close to something real.
But they work. Preston’s smile falters. Serenity sighs. Poppy’s hand relaxes.
“That’s beautiful,” Serenity says. “Preston and I have that, too. That instant soul recognition. Like we’ve known each other across lifetimes.”
“How special,” I murmur.
Then the scent hits me—old blood, older grief, and fifty years of fermenting rage. My body goes still in a way Poppy will later learn to recognize as danger.
Every muscle locks. My vision sharpens. The party noise fades to a hum as every predator instinct I possess focuses on a single point across the terrace.
Damien.
He stands near the orchid display, holding a glass of wine he won’t drink, wearing a linen suit that costs more than most people’s cars. He looks the same as he did in Vienna—dark hair, darker eyes, the kind of face that painters once called beautiful before they learned what lived behind it.
He’s watching me. Has been, I realize. Since I arrived.
“Julian?” Poppy’s voice comes from far away. “You okay? You went pale. Well, paler.”
“Fine. Just thought I saw someone I knew.”
“Who?”
Before I can answer, Damien moves. Not toward us—that would be too direct, too obvious. He shifts his position so our eyes meet across forty feet of terrace.
And smiles.
“We should get going,” I say. My voice sounds wrong. Too controlled. “Dinner reservations.”
“Oh, we’re all at the same table tonight,” Serenity says. “The wedding party dinner. Isn’t that wonderful? We’ll have so much time to catch up.”
Damien walks toward us. Casual. Unhurried. A cat that’s already decided to kill the mouse, but wants to play with its food first.
“Julian Blackthorne.” His voice hasn’t changed in fifty years. Cultured with a hint of amusement. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
Poppy looks between us. “You two know each other?”
“Old acquaintances,” Damien says. He extends his hand to her. “Damien Ashworth. Julian and I go way back. Don’t we, Julian?”
When he goes to shake mine, I don’t take his hand. Don’t trust myself to touch him without remembering Vienna. What he did. What I did in response.
“Further than most,” I manage.
“I’m Poppy.” She shakes his hand, because she doesn’t know better. Because she can’t feel the evil exuding from him. “Julian’s girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend.” Damien’s smile widens. “Still collecting humans, I see. Remember how that worked out in Prague?”
The words land like a blade. Poppy frowns. Preston and Serenity exchange glances.
“Prague was a long time ago,” I say.
“Was it? Feels like yesterday to me.” Damien’s eyes never leave mine. “Some things stay fresh. I guess, some wounds don’t heal.”
“I don’t—” Poppy starts.
“Julian and I had a mutual friend in Prague,” Damien says. “Lovely woman. Tragic what happened to her.” He tilts his head, that smile still fixed. “I’ve often wondered if you ever think about her. If you ever lie awake remembering how she screamed.”
The world goes red at the edges. I feel my control slipping, the thing inside me clawing toward the surface.
Poppy’s hand tightens on mine. The contact pulls me back.
“We should go,” I say. “We’ll be late.”
“Of course.” Damien steps aside. “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up. After all, we’re both here for the whole week.”
A promise. A threat. Vienna all over again.
My phone buzzes as we walk. Marcus.
MARCUS: Facial recognition flagged him the moment he entered the terrace. Damien Ashworth. He checked in two days ago under an alias—room 3047, east wing. I’ve already pulled his movement history. He’s been watching your suite.
Two days. He was here before us. Waiting.
MARCUS: Resort security has been discreetly repositioned. He won’t get within fifty feet of your room without triggering an alert.
I don’t respond, and I can see questions building behind Poppy’s eyes as she watches me place the phone back in my pocket.
We walk back toward the main building. The Junkanoo drums have stopped. Only our footsteps on stone and the distant whisper of waves.
“That was weird,” Poppy says. “Who is that guy? What was he talking about? Prague?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Julian—”
“Not now.” Harsher than I intend. “Please. Not now.”
She goes quiet. I feel her watching me, questions building behind her silence.