CHAPTER 26
JULIAN
The rehearsal dinner is held in the resort’s private dining room—an intimate space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. Twenty-three people. Thirty-six heartbeats, if you count the staff.
Three exits. Main entrance, service door near the kitchen, emergency exit behind the decorative screen in the corner. The windows are tempered glass—not ideal for a quick departure, but manageable. The staff rotates every twelve minutes, which gives me predictable blind spots in coverage.
“So,” Poppy’s voice is quiet, pitched just for me. “You planning a heist?”
“Not a heist. An extraction.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Heists involve taking things. Extractions involve protecting them.” I guide her toward our assigned seats, my hand at the small of her back. “You’re the thing I’m protecting.”
“That’s either romantic or creepy. I haven’t decided.”
“Let me know when you figure it out.”
The seating arrangement places us near the center of the table—bad for defense, good for appearing like a happy couple. I adjust our chairs, angling myself toward the main entrance without being obvious about it.
Catherine Gable is already seated at the head of the table, holding court with the Morgan family patriarch. Her champagne glass is half-empty, which explains the elevated volume of her opinions about the flower arrangements.
I activate my earpiece. “Marcus. Status.”
“Damien returned to his room after the rehearsal. No movement since. Elena’s at the bar with sightlines to the dining room entrance. Sofia’s doing a perimeter sweep. Nathaniel’s running backup from the pool deck.”
“Any indication he’ll attend?”
“Negative.”
He’s letting me stew, letting the anticipation build. The same pattern he’s used since this whole horrible game began.
“Keep me updated.”
“Always.”
“Did you just move your chair again?” she observes.
“Better sightlines.”
“To what? The bread basket?”
“To everything.” I reach for her hand under the table. Her pulse jumps at the contact. She’s alert. Aware. Ready. “Try to relax.”
“Says the man who just repositioned his chair.”
“Hypervigilance is my love language.”
She laughs. Even now, surrounded by threats, she can still laugh. Still find humor in the absurdity of our situation.
The dinner proceeds in waves.
Appetizers. Champagne. Conversation that ebbs and flows around the table. I track all of it while appearing to participate—a skill honed over centuries.
The food arrives. Grilled chicken, yellow rice, things I cannot eat but must pretend to enjoy.
Catherine’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Julian, I don’t believe you’ve told us much about your family. Where did you grow up?”
The table quiets. Several heads turn.
“Various places,” I say. “My family traveled when I was young. Europe, mostly.”
“How exotic.” Catherine’s tone suggests she doesn’t find it exotic at all. “And your parents? What do they do?”
“They passed away some years ago.” True, in a sense. My human parents died in 1802. “I prefer not to dwell on it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” She doesn’t sound sorry. “And what was it you said you did, run a technology company?”
“Yes, some technology ventures and investments. Nothing as impressive as cardiac surgery.” I nod toward Violet. “Your daughter saves lives. I just move money around.”
“Don’t be modest.” Chris’s father, Doug, leans forward. “I looked you up. Blackthorne Holdings has quite a portfolio. AI development, biotech, sustainable energy. You’re doing more than moving money.”
Doug Morgan did his homework. I file that away—not as a threat, but as a data point.
“I try to invest in things that matter,” I say. “Long-term value over short-term gains.”
“A patient investor.” Doug nods. “Rare these days.”
Patient. If he only knew.
Under the table, Poppy squeezes my hand.
“Julian.” Sofia’s voice comes through my earpiece. “Damien just left his room. Heading toward the main building.”
My posture doesn’t change. My expression stays pleasant. But every sense sharpens.
“Direction?”
“North corridor. Could be the restaurant. Could be the bar. I’m tracking.”
“Everyone,” I say quietly so the other guests don’t hear me. “Stay alert. Damien is moving.”
Three acknowledgments come through. Elena from the bar. Nathaniel from the pool deck. Marcus from the security center.
I return my attention to the table, where the conversation has shifted to wedding logistics. Violet explains the timeline for tomorrow—ceremony at four, cocktail hour at five, reception at six. I listen with half my attention while listening to Sofia’s updates.
“He’s at the bar,” Sofia reports. “Ordering a drink. Elena has eyes on him.”
“I see him,” Elena confirms. “He’s just sitting. Watching the entrance to the private dining room.”
Watching. Positioning himself close enough to remind me he’s here, far enough to maintain deniability while still sending me a message: I’m watching. I’m not going anywhere.
“Should we engage?” Nathaniel asks.
“No. Let him watch,” Marcus says. “Remember, we do nothing unless he moves first.”
Poppy’s hand tightens on mine. She can’t hear the comms, but she reads my body language.
“Damien?” she mouths.
I give the smallest nod.
She doesn’t panic. Just straightens her shoulders and turns back to the conversation.
The speeches begin after the main course.
Chris’s best man goes first—a rambling affair with too many inside jokes and a story about a camping trip that seems to have no point. The table laughs politely.
Violet’s maid of honor delivers a toast that’s actually touching. Something about finding your person in unexpected places. About love that challenges you to be better.
I feel Poppy’s gaze on me. All I want to do is gaze back, but I can’t look at her. Not right now.
Catherine stands next.
“As mother of the bride,” she begins, champagne glass raised, “I have the privilege of embarrassing my daughter in front of everyone she loves.”
Polite laughter. Violet looks pained.
“Violet has always been the practical one. The focused one. The one who knew what she wanted and went after it.” Catherine’s gaze flicks to Poppy. “Some people drift through life, unsure of their path. Violet has never been one of those people.”
Beside me, Poppy’s heartbeat accelerates. A small increase—imperceptible to anyone without enhanced senses—but I hear it.
Catherine continues, oblivious or indifferent. She talks about Violet’s achievements, her career, her perfect choice in partner. Every compliment contains an implicit comparison, a reminder of everything Poppy isn’t.
I want to stand. Want to interrupt. Want to tell Catherine Gable what I think.
But this isn’t my battle. Not yet.
Catherine finishes with a toast to the happy couple. Everyone drinks. Poppy’s smile is fixed, perfect, and false.
Then Preston stands.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
“I know I’m not part of the wedding party,” he says, that practiced humble-brag tone that makes me tighten my fists. “But Chris is a colleague and a friend, and I wanted to say a few words.”
He clears his throat. Adjusts his cuffs.
“Chris and I have worked together for three years. I’ve watched him grow as an analyst, as a leader, and now as a partner.
” Preston’s gaze drifts to Violet. Then to Poppy.
“What I admire most about Chris is his ability to see people clearly. To look past the surface and understand who someone really is.”
Poppy’s pulse spikes.
“That’s rare,” Preston continues. “Most of us spend our lives performing. Showing the world what we think they want to see instead of who we really are.” Another glance at Poppy. “But real love—real connection—requires seeing through the performance. Finding the truth underneath.”
This isn’t a toast. It’s a message.
“Serenity taught me that,” Preston says, reaching for his fiancée’s hand. “She taught me to look beyond the image. To find what’s real.”
Poppy’s breathing changes. Shorter. Tighter. Old wounds being reopened in public.
“So here’s to Chris and Violet,” Preston raises his glass, “for finding something real in a world full of performances.”
People drink. People applaud. Preston sits down with a satisfied expression.
And I stand up.
The table goes quiet. I feel eyes on me—curious, surprised, wary. I haven’t spoken much tonight. Haven’t drawn attention to myself. The mysterious boyfriend staying in the background.
Not anymore.
“If I may,” I say. “I’d like to add something.”
Violet nods. Chris looks curious. Catherine looks suspicious.
Poppy looks terrified.
“Preston made an interesting point about performance,” I begin. “About finding what’s real beneath the surface. It’s a compelling idea—the notion that authenticity is separate from presentation. That the way we choose to show ourselves to the world is a mask rather than an expression.”
I turn to the table.
“But I’ve learned something different. The people who dismiss performance as fake—they’ve never had to build something from nothing. They’ve never had to create connection out of thin air, reach people they’ve never met, make strangers feel seen through nothing but craft and intention.”
I don’t look at Poppy. Not yet.
“That’s what Poppy does every day. She takes the ordinary moments of her life and transforms them into something that connects with hundreds of thousands of people. She makes strangers feel less alone. She builds community out of content, connection out of creativity.”
Now I look at her. Her eyes are bright. Tears welling up.
“Is it performance? Yes. Is it also real? Also yes. The effort, the craft, the daily choice to show up and create something from nothing—that’s not a mask.
That’s courage. That’s generosity. That’s choosing to share yourself with the world even when the world might not appreciate what you’re offering. ”
I turn back to the table.
“So yes. To Chris and Violet, who found something real.” I raise my glass. “And to everyone who builds connections—through surgery or through screens, through boardrooms or through content. The method doesn’t matter. What matters is the intention behind it.”
I drink. The table drinks. A moment of silence, then scattered applause.
Preston looks like he swallowed something sour.
Serenity is frowning.
Catherine stares at me with an expression I can’t read.
And Poppy seems happy.
I sit down. Her hand finds mine under the table and doesn’t let go.
“Julian.” Elena’s voice in my ear, tight. “Damien is smiling.”
I lean in like I’m saying something to Poppy. “Smiling how?”
“Like you just gave him what he wanted.”
I replay my speech. The defense of Poppy. The public declaration of what she means to me. The implicit challenge to Preston, to Catherine, to everyone who’s ever dismissed her.
And I understand.
Damien wanted me to reveal how much I care. Wanted me to show everyone at this table how deep my feelings run. Because tomorrow, when he makes his move, that speech will be context. Evidence. Proof that Julian Blackthorne is in love with Poppy Gable.
And when he reveals what I am, that love becomes a weapon.
Not against me. Against her.
She defended a monster. She chose a monster. She let a monster into her bed, her life, her family’s wedding.
That’s what they’ll think. That’s what Damien wants them to think.
“Julian?” Poppy’s voice breaks through. “You okay?”
I look at her. At the woman who faced Damien at a pool party and didn’t flinch.
“Yes. Just know that I love you,” I say quietly. Just for her. “Whatever happens tomorrow—whatever he does—I need you to remember that.”
Her brow furrows. “Julian, what—”
“Promise me.”
She studies my face. Reads something there that makes her expression soften.
“I promise,” she says. “And Julian?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, too.”
The words settle over me. Proof that even if tomorrow destroys everything, this moment was real.
“Julian.” Marcus’s voice, cutting through. “Damien is leaving the bar. Heading back to his room.”
“Follow him. Make sure he stays there.”
“Already on it.”
The dinner continues around us. Dessert arrives. Conversations wind down. People start making noises about early mornings and beauty sleep.
Through it all, I hold Poppy’s hand and try not to think about what tomorrow will bring.
A wedding. A confrontation. A revelation that might destroy everything.
Or maybe—just maybe—a chance to end this.
One way or another, tomorrow changes everything.