Chapter Twenty-Nine Julia
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Julia
Julia must have been more of an Ellene than she realized, or perhaps it was the Presbyterian pragmatism that she’d inherited from her aunt and uncle, but she didn’t make a fuss after her confrontation with Valentine. She just went back to the party as if everything were fine.
If anyone looked closely, they might have noticed that she was clenching her drink too tightly, smiling too broadly.
But the only person who seemed to sense that something was wrong was Abby.
Julia avoided her best friend’s gaze, not sure how to explain.
She’d never told Abby about Harry’s affair with his sister-in-law.
She told herself that it was too personal, that it wasn’t really her story to tell.
But deep down, Julia knew that wasn’t the reason she’d kept silent.
Abby would consider it a deal-breaker. And Julia wasn’t ready for her friend to sour on Harry.
Ignoring Abby’s concerned glances, she kept circulating through the party, giving Valentine—and Preston—a wide berth.
She found herself repeating the same lines over and over as various guests congratulated her.
Thank you for coming. Did you travel a long way?
Isn’t it lovely in London this time of year?
She felt like an actress, pretending to be someone else, reciting words that a stranger had written.
Words that had nothing to do with the real her.
The real her. Julia wasn’t certain who that was anymore.
All she knew was that it wasn’t this woman, standing in a buttoned-up silk dress with long sleeves, listening to gossip about the prime minister—whose shockingly incriminating internet history had been published yesterday—or debates about utterly frivolous topics, such as which really had the best skiing, the French Alps or the Swiss.
When the last guests had finally left, Julia headed upstairs to the room she’d been assigned in London.
It was a distinct upgrade from the bird room, with a canopied queen-size bed and a dresser where a collection of ceramic dogs was displayed.
Wearily, she reached behind her neck to unzip her dress.
“What happened tonight?”
She looked up to see Harry standing at the door. He didn’t cross the room to help her with the zipper, to lift her hair and kiss the back of her neck as he normally would. He just lingered where he was, watching her.
“You mean, when Valentine tried to sabotage me by inviting my ex-boyfriend?”
Harry blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“Valentine admitted it! Your sister-in-law, or should I say your ex-girlfriend?” Julia knew from Harry’s sharp intake of breath that she shouldn’t have said that, but she couldn’t help lashing out.
“She admitted that she tracked Preston down and invited him? That’s what she said?” Harry demanded.
Julia hesitated. Had Valentine confessed all of that, or had she merely implied that she was guilty? “Well, she didn’t deny it,” Julia insisted.
Harry frowned. “Who is this Preston guy, anyway? You didn’t mention him before tonight.”
“Harry, I have a history. I never claimed to have been a nun before we met.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it!
I just wish I’d had a bit of warning, instead of having to smile while that asshole kept looking you up and down, telling anyone who would listen that he was there first.” Harry clenched his hands into helpless fists.
Julia rarely saw this side of him, but now and then, it broke through—this fierce, protective anger, which he usually held in check.
“I can’t help wondering why you kept him from me,” Harry added bitterly.
“Because he’s not worth mentioning!” Julia snapped. “You’re hardly in a position to judge me for keeping secrets, given that you didn’t tell me your real name.”
“Are you seriously going to hold that over me forever?”
No, Julia wanted to say, but for some reason the word didn’t form.
Harry took a step forward. The air between them felt charged with hurt, resentment. Anger.
“Julia. I get that he’s an ex-boyfriend, but why does seeing him again upset you so much?”
“He hurt me, okay? I thought I had sworn off rich, entitled people after what Preston did to me, and yet here I am, about to marry another one!”
Julia yanked the zipper down so hard that it jammed, ripping her dress a little along the seam.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Harry walked around to stand behind her. “Let me.”
Slowly, he set one hand on her hip, pulling the zipper all the way down. His hand brushed against her bare back for a single instant before he stepped away.
That little step was a sign of how strained things were between them. Normally, once she was half-dressed, Harry would have scooped her up and carried her laughing to the bed. But neither of them was in was in the mood for laughter. Or intimacy.
“Do you really think I’m like Preston?” Harry asked softly.
Julia heaved a breath. “Of course not.”
And then she told him. The whole story: How Preston had swept her off her feet, how she had been young and na?ve enough to fall for it.
How he’d stolen her essay, her spot at Harvard Law, her future.
As she spoke, she stepped out of the high-necked silk dress, letting it pool on the floor, and shrugged into a pair of leggings and an old T-shirt.
When she’d finished, Harry folded her into his arms.
Julia let herself lean into him. She closed her eyes, relishing his embrace, the way he made it feel like he could protect her from anything. But she was wise enough, now, to know that such a feeling was an illusion.
No one and nothing—not Harry, or his strong arms, or all his millions of dollars—could protect her like that. The only person she could count on to protect her was herself.
“I’m so sorry,” Harry murmured. “I just wish you’d felt like you could tell me all of this.”
Julia stepped back, meeting his gaze. Her smile was tinged with sadness as she said, “I know the feeling.”
“Right, of course. I guess we’ve both held some things back.” Harry’s voice was rueful, soft. He was still holding her, his arms looped around her waist.
“Harry. Is there something else you haven’t shared?”
Julia wasn’t quite sure what she was fishing for. But she still sensed a weight of secrecy between them, like pressure building in the air before a storm. The awareness had started as a prickling in the back of her mind, and at some point over the past weeks it had grown.
Harry released his grip on her back, sliding his palms down to catch her hands. “There are some things I haven’t told you,” he admitted. “Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t. At least, not yet. Please,” he begged, his eyes meeting hers. “I promise I’ll tell you when the time is right.”
Julia wanted so badly to trust him. Yet she hesitated. Seeing her pause, Harry hurried to add, “If this is about my family, then we can walk away from it all. The money has never mattered to me. We can go live like normal people, far away from all of this, like we did in Queenstown.”
The thought was tempting—to return to their old lives, back when everything had been simple and straightforward. When it had been just the two of them.
But Julia knew that there was no going back. Not anymore.
She didn’t want to make Harry choose between her and his family, to pull him away when he’d only just gotten them back.
Julia thought of how broadly he’d smiled when he’d stepped off the boat at Olympus and seen Alina.
She thought of how much he loved his mom, how desperately he wanted to make amends with his brother.
Worse, she thought of what Valentine had said tonight: You’ll never make the cut, and He will always choose his family, every time.
For the first time since she’d learned about Harry’s money, Julia wondered if it was too much.
She didn’t want to be part of a family that considered themselves too good for her. A family that was so focused on money and power, on hiding themselves behind high walls and never letting anyone else join their ranks.
But she couldn’t bear the alternative, either: forcing Harry to run away with her, to leave his family and burn bridges behind him, again.
Julia walked over to the vanity and untwisted her earrings, pearl droplets that Tara had insisted on lending her. She slid the diamond bracelet, also borrowed, off her wrist. Once she’d tugged her hair into a high ponytail, her transformation was complete.
She no longer looked like the bride, like an Ellene. She looked ordinary.
“What are you doing?” Harry asked, watching her.
“I’m getting out of here.”
He nodded as if this were completely reasonable. “I can get us a hotel room, and we’ll book a flight back to New York for the morning.”
“I don’t want to go to a hotel room. I’ll go to Abby’s.” Julia tugged on her running shoes.
“If you give me Abby’s address, I’ll call you a car,” Harry offered. He had come to stand behind her, and for a moment, Julia studied their reflections in the antique Venetian mirror—his so tall, so impossibly handsome, and hers so sad.
“I’m going to take the tube.” Julia grabbed her purse—her real one, not the postage-stamp-sized thing she’d been carrying all night—and slung it over her shoulder.
Harry frowned. “At this hour? I really don’t—”
“This is something that I need to do alone. Please,” she added, her voice breaking, “just let me go.”
Harry went still. Perhaps he, like Julia, didn’t know what she meant by that—whether she was just talking about going to Abby’s or something more.
Julia didn’t look at him as she clattered down the stairs and out the grand front door. Then she was running, down the pathway to the gate, which opened automatically before her. Perhaps it was on a motion sensor, or perhaps a guard somewhere was watching her flee.
The London night felt balmy and warm. Julia slowed to a walk, letting a few cars amble past. She navigated the broad residential streets, all full of enormous houses behind ivy-covered walls or fences, until she reached an avenue with more traffic.
The red and white sign for the Underground was up ahead, but Julia didn’t turn toward it.
Instead she drifted toward the lights of a café, where a few patrons lingered over glasses of wine or slices of cake.
It was strange to think that none of these people knew about the Ellenes—at least, not outside the pages of a magazine. Just a few months ago Julia had been one of them. She had recognized the family’s name, but that was all. Certainly she’d never spared them more than a passing thought.
Now she had agreed to marry one of them, to become one of them.
Julia stared down at the engagement ring on her finger. For a moment, in the light of the dimming streetlamps, the glitter of the rock crystals felt almost menacing.
She shivered and curled her hand into a fist, hiding the ring from sight.
Maybe this was for the best. If she and Harry weren’t going to work, it was better that she realize it now. She could leave New York and never look back. What if she moved to Europe? Abby would be close, and there were some lovely galleries in Paris, or even right here in London.
Julia turned aside at a crosswalk, tears blurring her vision.
She didn’t want to start over. She loved her life with Harry: The mornings where they ran together along the Hudson and ended at Murray’s Bagels.
The nights where she reached for him in the dark, and he matched her heat with his own, and then afterward, the way they would talk in that meandering, sleepy way about topics serious or absurd.
She loved curling up on the couch with him while one of his awful movies played in the background, trying to read her Kindle while his hand kept skirting distractedly up her thigh, until they were making out to the sound of exploding cars and she had to lean over, laughing, to find the remote.
She loved the way Harry made her feel that anything was possible.
Suddenly, all she wanted was to be with him. What the hell was she doing, running away again? She couldn’t bear the prospect that they might be breaking up; it was unthinkable, it was devastating.
Julia turned around, seized by a sudden desire to find him. To talk. She started running through the streets—
“Jules!”
Harry stood in front of her. In her overheated mind, Julia didn’t even question that he was there; she just pulled him close, buried her face in his chest.
“Hey,” he murmured. “It’s going to be okay, don’t worry.”
“I love you,” she sobbed, and then said it again. “I love you, I love you.”
Harry reached beneath her chin to tip her face up. His blue eyes were very serious as he said, “I love you, too. I’ll walk away from all of it for you, okay? We can leave New York, start over somewhere new, forget this whole big production of a wedding.”
Julia managed a smile, touched by the magnitude of the offer. “I couldn’t ask that of you.”
“You didn’t need to ask. I offered.”
Valentine had been wrong about one thing, at least: Harry wouldn’t choose his family over her.
But as much as Julia wanted to say yes, to take him up on the offer and leave his family behind, she knew better.
If she couldn’t give him up, and she couldn’t be the reason he lost his family, then there was only one option left.
“No more running,” she told him. “We’re doing this the right way. But I will need a little more say in things, from now on.”
“And I need to mess with Preston a little bit,” Harry declared. At the look on her face, he wore a sheepish expression. “I’m not saying I’ll take a baseball bat to his knees, okay? I just think I could, you know, get him fired from his law firm, or evicted from his house, or something.”
“I don’t want to spend another minute thinking about Preston,” Julia told him.
She was done worrying about the past, done letting it infect her future. She and Harry were together, and that was what mattered.
If she had to fight for her place within his family, well, Harry was worth it.