Contingency plans. Exit strategies. Ways to get Poppy out if everything falls apart.
By noon, I’m as prepared as I can be.
By noon, I’m also exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with sleep.
At least the venue is handled. That decision, made weeks ago when I first agreed to Poppy's arrangement, now looks less like paranoia and more like providence.
Marcus appears in my doorway. “The surveillance team is in place.”
“Good.”
“Julian.” He steps inside, closes the door. “You know this is a risk. Getting this attached.”
“I know.”
“Prague was different. Anya was different. She knew what you were from the beginning.”
“I know.”
“This girl—Poppy—she has no idea what she’s walking into.”
“I know.” My voice is sharper than I intend. “I know all of this, Marcus. I’ve been calculating the risks since the moment I read her request.”
“Then why do it?”
I look out the specially tinted window. Los Angeles stretches toward the horizon—millions of people living their brief lives, unaware of the things that walk among them. Unaware of the centuries of history moving beneath the surface.
“Because she makes me feel human,” I say. “And I haven’t felt human in a very long time.”
Marcus is quiet. Then: “Celeste called. She has the full dossier on Damien. Shall I have it sent to your secure server?”
“Yes.”
“And Julian?”
“What?”
“Whatever happens—whatever he does—don’t let him win by taking away the thing you just found.” Marcus moves to the door. “Some things are worth fighting for.”
“Even when the fight might destroy them?”
“Especially then.”
He leaves.
I turn back to the window, to the city, to the four days stretching ahead.
Seven days to the wedding.
Seven days before Poppy learns the truth—from me or from Damien.
Seven days to decide what kind of monster I’m going to be.
That evening, I call her.
“Julian.” Her voice is warm. Happy to hear from me. “This is new. You usually text.”
“I wanted to hear your voice.”
