CHAPTER 25
POPPY
The shower is hot—maybe too hot. I wince, then lean into the pain, standing under the spray and letting the water burn while my brain tries to process the last hour.
Margaret, committed to an asylum, burned alive. Corinne, walked into a river. Anya, arranged on a bed like a gift.
And I just told him I wasn’t running. Was that a mistake? I can’t imagine leaving. What does that make me? Brave? Stupid? In love? Maybe all three.
I work shampoo into a lather, scrubbing as if I could wash away the doubt along with the sunscreen.
Surprise, it didn’t work.
I rinse and reach for the soap, and the doubt is still lingering.
Here’s the thing: I believe in Julian’s love for me with a certainty that terrifies me. It’s too real. Something I’ve always wished for, but never had.
Right now, I’m more afraid of calling Sage than anything else. The last thing I need is her trying to convince me I’m making a mistake—which will most likely be the case since she doesn’t believe in true love or soul mates.
Steam billows around me as I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my dripping body before reaching for the plush hotel robe.
The glow of my phone screen catches my eye from beneath its protective towel on the counter.
Sage’s name flashes in my mind—I promised to call her tonight.
If I don’t, her imagination will run wild, conjuring scenarios that, considering recent revelations about Julian’s past, might not be far off.
I prop the phone against the mirror at an angle that shows only my face. My finger hesitates over Sage’s contact photo—her laughing at some forgotten joke. I tap it.
She answers on the first ring.
“You look like you’ve been crying,” Sage says.
“It’s the steam.”
“Poppy Rose Gable, I’ve known you for twelve years. I know the difference between steam-face and cry-face. Your nose does that thing.”
My hand goes to my nose. “What thing?”
“That thing! The red splotchy thing!” She leans closer to her camera. “Spill. What happened?”
“Julian told me about his exes.”
Silence. Then: “His exes. Plural.”
“Three of them. It was... a lot.”
“A lot how? Like, ‘I have baggage’ a lot? Or ‘I murdered them and buried them in my backyard’ a lot?”
I almost laugh. Almost. “Somewhere in between, I guess. They’re all dead, Sage.”
“Dead.”
“Dead. And for a long time, Julian blamed himself. Thought that loving him was dangerous. Cursed, maybe. Like anyone who got close to him was doomed.”
“Oh, honey.”
I grab the phone and sit on the edge of the tub with the phone balanced on my knee.
“But it wasn’t him,” I continue. “There’s this guy from his past. Someone who blames Julian for something that happened years ago. And he’s been targeting people Julian cares about. To hurt him.”
“Targeting how?”
“Sage.”
“No, seriously, Poppy. Targeting how? Are you safe? Is this guy at the wedding?”
“He’s here,” I admit. “But Julian has people. Security. We’re handling it.”
“Handling it.” Her voice goes flat. “You’re at your sister’s destination wedding with a mysterious billionaire whose exes are all dead and a stalker who sounds like he’s been killing people for years, and you’re ‘handling it.’”
When she puts it like that, it does sound insane.
“Yes.”
“Poppyyyyyyyy.”
“I know how it sounds. I do. But Sage, I’m not in danger from Julian. I’m in danger because of Julian. Because someone wants to hurt him by hurting people he loves. And I’m one of those people now.”
“Now?” Her voice sharpens. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“He loves me, Sage. And I...” I take a breath. “I love him, too. It’s terrifying. Probably stupid. And definitely not what either of us signed up for when I hired a fake boyfriend for a wedding.”
I think about Julian’s face when he told me about the women he’d lost. The way his voice cracked on their names. The certainty in his eyes that I would run—and the wonder when I didn’t.
“Do you? Really?”
“Yes,” I say. “I really do.”
Sage goes quiet. I watch her thinking—weighing concern against trust, fear against friendship. We’ve been doing this dance since freshman year of college, when she talked me out of dating that guy with the “live laugh love” tattoo and I talked her out of dropping out to follow a band on tour.
“Okay,” she says.
“Okay?”
“Okay. I trust you. I don’t understand what’s happening, and I’m definitely going to need the full story when you get home, and I reserve the right to fly down there and cause a scene if you stop answering my texts. But okay.”
My throat aches. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m going to need updates. Constant updates. And pictures. And probably a detailed explanation of how ‘hired a fake boyfriend’ turned into ‘I’m in love with a mysterious man whose exes keep dying.’”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have nothing but time.” She pauses. “Well, I have a wedding in San Diego this weekend that’s driving me insane. But emotionally? Nothing but time.”
I laugh. “I should go. The rehearsal is in an hour. I need to look like I haven’t been crying over century-old trauma.”
“Century-old?”
Crap. “Figure of speech.”
“That’s not a figure of speech, Poppy. That’s oddly specific.”
“Goodbye, Sage.”
“Text me after the rehearsal!”
“I will.”
“And Poppy?”
“Yeah?”
Sage’s voice softens. “Listen, if he truly sees you—all of you—then maybe the terrifying parts are the price of admission.” She pauses, a half-laugh escaping.
“Okay, I can’t believe I’m saying this. Me, of all people.
” Her eyes meet mine through the screen.
“But maybe love isn’t supposed to be comfortable.
Maybe it’s just supposed to be worth the cost.”
I swallow hard. “Since when are you philosophical?”
“Since I started planning weddings for a living and realized that the couples who last aren’t the ones who avoid problems. They’re the ones who face them together.” She smiles. “Now go put on something gorgeous and walk down an aisle.”
“Love you, weirdo.”
“Love you, too.”
I hang up. Stare at my reflection in the foggy mirror.
Sage is right. The couples who last are the ones who face things together.
Tomorrow, Julian and I face Damien.
Today, we face my family.
I’m not sure which one is scarier, but I guess I’m going to find out soon.
Getting ready takes longer than it should.
The rehearsal dress code is “smart casual,” which is the most useless phrase in the English language. Smart how? Casual compared to what? I change three times before settling on a floral sundress that says “I’m a put-together bridesmaid” without screaming “I’m trying to upstage the bride.”
Julian is waiting in the living room when I emerge. He’s in dark slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms in that way that probably took him decades to perfect.
He looks up when I enter. His face changes—guard dropping, eyes warming.
“You look absolutely lovely,” he says.
“You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I don’t sleep.”
“Right. Vampire thing.” I cross to him. Take his hands. “Are you okay? After everything you told me?”
“I should be asking you that.”
“I asked first.”
“I asked second.”
“Julian.”
“Fine.” He’s quiet for a bit too long, but I hold off saying anything. “I’ve carried those names for a very long time. Margaret. Corinne. Anya. Telling you about them...” He pauses. “It felt like setting down a weight I’d forgotten I was holding.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m terrified.” His hands tighten on mine. “Because you know everything, and you’re still here, and I don’t know how to protect that without suffocating it.”
“You don’t have to protect me, Julian. You have to trust me.”
“Trusting people has historically ended badly for me.”
“Then let’s make some new history.”
His mouth curves. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not. But neither is surviving two and a half centuries, and you managed that.” I squeeze his hands. “We’ve got a wedding rehearsal to get through. One thing at a time.”
“One thing at a time,” he repeats. “I can work with that.”
We head out to the cliff-side pavilion overlooking the ocean.
It’s a gorgeous location for the ceremony, and it’s decorated to add to the beauty.
White columns. Flowing fabric. The kind of backdrop that looks like it was designed for wedding photography, which it probably was.
Late afternoon sun casts everything in gold, and I can already imagine how beautiful Violet will look walking down this aisle tomorrow.
Right now, though, it’s chaos.
The wedding coordinator—a tiny woman named Tammy with a clipboard and way too much energy—is attempting to wrangle fifteen people into something resembling order.
Violet’s bridesmaids cluster near the front, comparing nail polish.
Chris’s groomsmen are doing that thing where they pretend to be too cool to care where they’re supposed to stand.
And my mother is critiquing the flower arrangements.
“The roses are too pink,” she says to no one in particular. “I specifically requested blush. This is coral. There’s a difference.”
“Mom.” Violet appears beside her, stress-smile locked in place. “The flowers are fine. Everything is fine.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Please don’t.” Violet spots me and her expression shifts to relief. “Poppy! I’m so glad you’re here. Come stand with me before I commit matricide.”
I leave Julian near the back of the venue and make my way to my sister. She grabs my arm like I’m the last lifeboat on the Titanic.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“The flowers are wrong, the chairs are crooked, and the officiant has a cold. Ugh, Mom has opinions about everything.” Violet takes a breath. “So, you know. Normal.”
“You look beautiful.”
“I look like I’m about to throw up.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
She laughs—a real laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing. “I’m glad you’re here, Pops. I know we don’t always...” She trails off. “I know I can be a lot. The perfect sister thing. The overachiever thing. But you’re still here, and that means everything.”