“That’s eight days from now.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to avoid me until then?”
“No.” His mouth curves. “I’m going to think about you constantly and pretend I’m not.”
“That’s very romantic.”
“I told you. I’m not good at this.”
I laugh, surprising myself. “You’re better than you think.”
He turns to leave. Pauses at the stairs.
“Poppy?”
“Yes?”
“The dress really does suit you.”
Then he’s gone—down the stairs and out into the night, leaving me standing in my doorway in emerald silk, touching my jaw where his fingers were.
I go inside. Lock the door. Stand in my living room surrounded by ring lights, PR packages, and all the evidence of my curated life.
And I realize I’m in serious trouble.
Because this doesn’t feel fake anymore.
It feels like the most real thing I’ve ever had.
CHAPTER 8
JULIAN
There is a photograph waiting for me when I arrive at work—in my private office. The one most of my staff don’t even have access to. Slipped under the door, which means someone bypassed three security checkpoints and a biometric lock.
Someone who knows how to move without being seen.
The image is grainy—security camera footage, probably. Poppy and me at the restaurant tonight. My hand covering hers. Her head tilted toward mine. Intimate. Incriminating.
On the back, in handwriting I’d recognize after fifty years of trying to forget it:
Still collecting humans, I see.
Haven’t you learned?
—D
I stand very still.
The building around me hums with silence—the late-night quiet of empty offices and sleeping servers. The Los Angeles skyline glitters beyond my windows, oblivious to the fact that something ancient and dangerous has just announced itself.
Damien.
I should have known. The background checks Marcus flagged. The pattern he recognized. I should have known it was personal. Damien doesn’t care about my business empire. He cares about watching me suffer.
I make three calls.
