Chapter 49
JULES
I should feel better about walking away. That’s what people do when they’ve been lied to, right?
They leave.
They protect themselves.
They don’t look back.
Lying in Oly and Nate’s spare bedroom at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling while they sleep soundly next door, I feel like I’ve been hollowed out with a rusty spoon.
I wish I had my favorite Care Bear to snuggle—the one with the rainbow on its belly that I’ve had since I was seven. Or better yet, a large, strong Clark Kent look-alike who wouldn’t lie about his secret identity for three months.
He was really good at snuggling.
I fit so perfectly in his arms. They were strong, snug, the kind of embrace that I could’ve spent a lifetime inside.
The argument we had in his foyer replays in my mind like the train that I’ll soon have to ride again—looping around the city.
I could’ve gotten used to being a little bit spoiled, too. I mean, the private jet was a bit over the top, but he did notice the little things. My favorite round truffle chocolates in the crinkly wrapping, for instance.
But the truth is, there was a parade’s worth of red flags on both sides. His mystery meetings were probably hockey-related. The gaping hole in his backstory that I should’ve insisted he fill. The gifts could’ve been because he felt guilty.
Then again, I had a few flags of my own—like the forged diploma currently burning a hole in my conscience and pointing to the fact that I didn’t finish college.
I’m not ashamed of that, but the fact that I hid it isn’t a point of pride.
Even when I shut him out, he’d looked unfairly handsome with a hint of stubble along his jaw.
Meanwhile, I probably resembled a puffer fish with my tear-streaked face and red-rimmed eyes.
I rub my hand across my face, worried that I’m going to break out with acne.
Emotional turmoil destroys my skin. The salty tears clog it.
I’m a wreck.
I miss my old studio apartment in Logan Square with its creaky floors and paper-thin walls.
I wonder what happened to Screechy and Grumbly—the couple next door whose arguments made me wonder if they were rehearsing for one of the soap operas my mom used to love.
Their dramatic fights about whose turn it was to buy milk or whether pineapple belonged on pizza had been oddly comforting background noise to my life—oh, wait. That was a debate Linc and I had.
And was it so bad? We worked out our pizza toppings in the end.
As my tears continue, the scrape of night against the dawn sky begins outside the window, gray bleeding into pale yellow.
Unable to bear being alone, I knock softly on the wall connecting my room to Nate and Oly’s.
“Oly?” I say in a voice barely above a whisper.
It’s not entirely fair of me to wake them up, but they knew they were welcoming an emotionally unstable train wreck into their home. But I don’t plan to be here long. I can’t burden them.
I’ll figure something out, I always do, even if it means going back to Vegas.
A muffled response comes through the thin drywall. I could probably hear their conversations if I wanted to, just like my old neighbors.
“Guys, could you pretend to be Screechy and Grumbly?” I ask through the wall.
There’s movement, then Nate, in a sleepy voice, asks, “What do you want us to do?”
“My old neighbors used to argue about everything through the wall. It felt like home. Could you two have a fake argument?”
There is silence, then Oly, her voice overly loud and dramatic, calls, “I can’t believe you did that in my dream last night!”
“It was a dream!” Nate protests, catching on immediately.
Oly whines, “But it was so awful.”
“I’m not responsible for dream me!”
“Dream you was very rude! Dream you ate my leftovers!”
“Real me would never eat your leftovers!”
I smile for the first time in twelve hours.
Their footsteps pad to my door, and they slip inside like concerned parents checking on a sick child.
They were there for me last night when I arrived on their doorstep looking like a rat drowned in tears and holding trash bags filled with my sparse belongings.
They listened patiently while I spilled the whole sob story, brought me tissues, and Nate even did a chocolate run, returning with two grocery bags full of heartbreak supplies—ice cream, tissues, face masks, and enough chocolate to put me into a sugar coma.
“How are you holding up?” Oly asks, perched on the edge of the bed.
“I have to figure out what to do.” I pull my knees to my chest. “About Linc, about work, about everything.”
Nate settles in the small armchair by the window. “Well, if it were us, we’d fight about it first. A real blowout.”
“Then we’d talk like mature adults,” Oly adds.
“Communication is key,” Nate agrees.
“Apologies to follow.”
“Forgiveness next,” he concludes.
“Last, but not least, rebuilding trust.”
I appreciate their advice, but I’m not there yet. Not even close. The betrayal feels too fresh, too raw. The man I thought I knew doesn’t exist. Linc is a hockey player with fans and a famous actress ex-girlfriend. He lives in a world I could never be part of.
Resolved, I announce, “The plan for today is to do my job … if I still have one.”
“Juliana—”
“I have to. If I lose this position, my father’s creditors will come after me again.” The weight of twenty-five thousand dollars in debt sits on my chest like a boulder-sized piece of fool’s gold.
Only, I’m the fool.
Before heading to the thirty-ninth floor, I make a detour to my old department. I need to see Wendy and Carmen—a glimpse at my life before Linc Andresen walked all over my heart.
“Juliana!” Wendy practically bounces out of her chair when she sees me. “We were just talking about you!”
The familiar autumn decorations and cheerfulness of the shared office feel like stepping back in time—to a life before corporate espionage and secret identities and feelings too big for my chest to contain.
“Just wanted to say hi,” I manage.
Carmen leans forward conspiratorially. “Girl, you have been holding out on us. The rumors on social media are wild.”
My stomach drops. “What rumors?”
“About you and that hockey player! People are saying you were at the game last night—that you’re dating a guy on the Ottawa Outlaws.” Wendy grins. “They’re calling you the mystery woman who snagged the guy who used to date Iva Katz.”
“Meow,” Carmen claws the air.
“But our Juliana is the real catch here.”
So they know Linc plays hockey. Did they know all along? Was I the only one in the dark? How did word get out? Do I really want to know?
“It’s not a big deal,” I lie.
“Not a big deal?” Wendy gapes. “It’s official!”
My shoulders sag and then I tell them the story. “He kept it from me.”
Understanding passes between them.
“Oh.” Wendy’s face falls.
“You mean to say …” Carmen trails off.
“I didn’t know Linc, the billionaire’s son, my boss, and the hockey player were all the same person.” I leave out the last part about him also being the guy I love.
They’re stunned silent.
The only thing to do is share a group hug before I set out for battle.
Upstairs, Linc’s office door is closed. Relief and disappointment war in my chest—much like they used to when I was first assigned to be his assistant.
Nothing has changed, yet everything is different.
I’m not ready to see him, but his absence feels like another small abandonment.
And if he had told me, what would I think?
Would I be okay with him being a hockey player billionaire hybrid?
Of course. Honesty is the problem. But I come back to my own secret.
If only we’d kept both sides of our street clean.
The big question is, would I forgive him if he apologized? Would he accept my apology?
Thankfully, I don't spot Misha or Veronica, but three envelopes sit on my desk.
The first to Jules
The second to Juliana
The third to Miss Lindley
My fingers shake as I open the first envelope. Inside is a letter written in Linc’s familiar blocky letters, the same handwriting I’ve seen on countless reports and sticky notes over the past three months.
My dearest Jules,
I know I have no right to use that name after what I’ve put you through, but I can’t help myself. You will always be Jules to me—brilliant, fierce, beautiful Jules who challenged me to be better from the moment we met.
I lied to you about who I am, and there’s no excuse for that. I was a coward, afraid that if you knew the truth about my career, you’d see me differently. Afraid of how it would change things.
I owe you an explanation. I’ve been used by people who want something from me, whether it’s money, proximity to my father, or fame and my connections. Instead of admitting it hurt, I buried it inside and figured it would be safer to let you like me for me.
But you deserve better than my fears. You deserve honesty, respect, and someone who shows up completely—not hiding behind a summer internship and half-truths.
You asked me once what happens after we find the letters.
I didn’t have an answer then, but I do now.
After this, I want to spend the rest of my life proving that you can trust me.
I want to be the man who brings you coffee in the morning and listens to your theories about Renaissance art authentication.
I want to spend the holidays with your Mom, Brad, and your brothers, as the man who loves their daughter and sister.
I want to give you the birthday celebrations your ex never bothered with and hold your hand through every whimsy you want to take.
I choose you, Buttercup. Not because you’re a summer fling or a temporary assistant, but because you’re the most remarkable woman I’ve ever known. If you’ll let me, I want to love you exactly as you are—brilliant mind, beautiful, generous heart, forged diploma, and all.
Yours completely, Linc
My vision blurs as I read the last lines again. He knows about the diploma, but he doesn’t care. He wants me anyway.
Wiping away tears, I open the second envelope. It contains a check for twenty-five thousand dollars with a Post-it note attached and the following words highlighted in gel For your father’s debt. No strings attached. Think of this as a finder’s fee or a donation to a good cause.
The contents of the third envelope bear Frank Andresen’s official letterhead.
Inside is a formal letter recommending me for promotion to Senior Research Specialist, citing my Exceptional investigative skills and unwavering integrity in uncovering fraudulent activity that could have severely damaged the company’s reputation and bottom line.
I stare at the three envelopes, my heart hammering against my ribs. Linc is offering me everything I’ve been seeking—financial freedom, career advancement, and most importantly, his love.
But even more than all of that, I want him.
The endless loop of my thoughts doubles back.
Realization hits me like a freight train.
I don’t want to be another person in his life who takes his money or his influence.
But I’m greedy for him—his attention, his voice, his laugh, and the way he makes me feel like the most interesting person in any room.
I want Linc, but mostly I want to share myself with him. To have a life together.
I knock on his office door. It’s quiet. It’s too early for him to be napping. I slowly open it, but the room is empty.
Walking to the window, I remember Linc standing in this same spot months ago, like a gargoyle with too much power. I think about how much I claimed to hate him. The irony isn’t lost on me now.
Movement below catches my eye. At ground level, a figure in jeans and a plaid shirt holds something colorful against his chest. Not flowers—something soft and plush.
A Care Bear.
It’s Linc, and he’s looking up at the building like he’s searching for something. Someone. For me.
He raises his hand in a small wave. Without thinking, I wave back as my anger blows away like the last of a storm.
My glowy Care Bear heart activated, my feet are already moving toward the elevator. I turn back at the last second, grabbing his executive badge from where it sits on his desk—the same badge he used to bypass the slow elevator.
Maybe we can have a second chance like Abraham and Mary.