“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.
