“That’s...” She laughs. “That’s really romantic. Are you okay? You sound serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
“More serious than usual. What’s wrong?”
I could tell her about Damien. About the threat. About the centuries of history about to collide with her perfectly curated life.
Instead, I say: “I just wanted you to know that whatever happens this week—whatever you learn about me—what I feel for you is real.”
Silence. When she speaks, her voice is softer.
“Julian. You’re scaring me a little.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“But you’re saying goodbye. It sounds like goodbye.”
“It’s not goodbye.” I grip the phone. “It’s a promise. That when things get complicated—and they will get complicated—the feelings underneath are true.”
“What things? What complications?”
“I can’t explain yet. But I will. After the wedding. I’ll tell you everything.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I mean it.”
Silence. I can hear her breathing—slow, steady, alive.
“Okay,” she says finally. “After the wedding. But Julian?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever it is—whatever you’re hiding—it’s not going to scare me off. I’m tougher than I look.”
“I know you are.”
“And I’m choosing this. Choosing you. Even with all the mystery and the weirdness and the things you won’t tell me.”
“Why?”
“Because you see me.” Her voice cracks slightly. “The real me. Not the Glowstagram version. Not the performance. You see the mess underneath, and you choose to stay anyway.”
“Poppy—”
“That’s rare, Julian. That’s worth fighting for.”
I close my eyes. Feel the weight of two hundred and fifty-seven years pressing down.
“You’re worth fighting for, too,” I say. “More than you know.”
“Then fight for me. Whatever’s coming—fight for us.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
