He laughs. “You’d be surprised how boring it can be. Though the market’s been interesting. I don’t suppose you have any insights on the Blackthorne acquisition rumors?”
Poppy makes a small noise. I squeeze her hand.
“I make it a policy not to discuss business at weddings,” I say. “It ruins the romance.”
“Speaking of romance—” A new voice cuts through. Sharp. Polished. Used to being heard. “Poppy, darling. You look wonderful.”
Catherine Gable approaches—smooth, expensive, impossible to ignore. She’s what Poppy will look like in thirty years if the warmth gets trained out of her. Same blue eyes, same delicate features, but refined until perfect and cold.
“Mom.” Poppy’s brightness turns brittle with a forced smile. “This is Julian.”
Catherine studies me. I’ve been evaluated by venture capitalists, board members, hostile takeover specialists. This is different. She looks at me the way art authenticators examine potential forgeries—searching for the brushstroke that doesn’t belong, the anachronistic pigment, the detail that betrays the lie.
“Julian Blackthorne,” I say, offering my hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Gable.”
“Catherine, please.” Her grip is cool, brief. “Blackthorne. Unusual name. British, right?”
“Yes, a long time ago. Before my times.”
“How long ago, exactly?” She tilts her head. “I’m something of an amateur genealogist.”
I maintain my smile. Catherine Gable isn’t just protective—she’s done research. The dossier request my security team flagged wasn’t casual due diligence.
“My grandfather was very private,” I say. “It wasn’t something he liked to discuss.”
“How convenient.” Her eyes don’t leave mine. “And what might you do, Julian?”
“I run a technology company. Nothing as impressive as raising two accomplished daughters.”
Catherine’s expression softens. Barely. “Well. At least Poppy’s found someone with a real career. After all that time invested in her little internet hobby, I was starting to worry.”
Poppy goes rigid beside me.
“Her internet hobby,” I repeat. “You mean her business that reaches a million people daily and generates substantial revenue through brand partnerships and creative content?”
Catherine blinks. “Well, I wouldn’t call it—”
“A business? Because that’s what it is. Poppy has built something from scratch. No investors, no safety net. Just talent, discipline, and instinct for what resonates with people.” I turn to Poppy. Her eyes are wide. “I find it fascinating. The way she’s monetized the connection she has with her audience. That’s not an easy feat in a digital landscape that rewards performance over substance.”
“I—” Poppy starts.
“Though I suppose it’s easy to dismiss what we don’t understand,” I continue. “I made that mistake early in my career. Underestimated the power of genuine connection. It cost me several ventures before I learned better.”
Catherine’s smile freezes. She’s not just offended. She’s taking notes.
“Well,” she says. “Lovely that you’re so supportive. Though I hope Poppy’s considering more stable options for the future. The internet is so fickle.”
“So is everything worth doing. Risk is just opportunity in different clothing.”
Violet looks delighted. Chris looks confused.
Poppy’s hand trembles against my arm.
A waiter passes with champagne. I take two glasses and hand one to Poppy. Her fingers brush mine and linger.
“Excuse us,” I say. “I promised Poppy we would tour the grounds before dinner.”
We follow a stone path toward the beach, passing a groundskeeper trimming sea grape hedges. The Junkanoodrums have faded, replaced by the whisper of casuarina pines and waves crashing against the reef.
