“She posts what she chooses to share. There’s a difference.”
Serenity touches Preston’s arm. “I’m sure Poppy’s learned to be more selective about what she shares. Social media can be so toxic with influencers that share too much trying to have an authentic connection.”
“Poppy’s good at authentic connection,” I say. “It’s her gift.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—” Serenity’s eyes widen. “I love Poppy’s content. So aspirational.”
“Aspirational,” Poppy repeats. “Right.”
Preston shifts his weight. “So, Julian. How did you two meet?”
“Mutual connections. The specifics aren’t as interesting as the result.”
“Which is?”
I look at Poppy. She’s watching me with an expression I can’t read. “Finding someone who makes me want to be less careful.”
The words surprise me. Too honest. Too close to something real.
But they work. Preston’s smile falters. Serenity sighs. Poppy’s hand relaxes.
“That’s beautiful,” Serenity says. “Preston and I have that, too. That instant soul recognition. Like we’ve known each other across lifetimes.”
“How special,” I murmur.
Then the scent hits me—old blood, older grief, and fifty years of fermenting rage. My body goes still in a way Poppy will later learn to recognize as danger.
Every muscle locks. My vision sharpens. The party noise fades to a hum as every predator instinct I possess focuses on a single point across the terrace.
Damien.
He stands near the orchid display, holding a glass of wine he won’t drink, wearing a linen suit that costs more than most people’s cars. He looks the same as he did in Vienna—dark hair, darker eyes, the kind of face that painters once called beautiful before they learned what lived behind it.
He’s watching me. Has been, I realize. Since I arrived.
“Julian?” Poppy’s voice comes from far away. “You okay? You went pale. Well, paler.”
“Fine. Just thought I saw someone I knew.”
“Who?”
Before I can answer, Damien moves. Not toward us—that would be too direct, too obvious. He shifts his position so our eyes meet across forty feet of terrace.
And smiles.
“We should get going,” I say. My voice sounds wrong. Too controlled. “Dinner reservations.”
“Oh, we’re all at the same table tonight,” Serenity says. “The wedding party dinner. Isn’t that wonderful? We’ll have so much time to catch up.”
Damien walks toward us. Casual. Unhurried. A cat that’s already decided to kill the mouse, but wants to play with its food first.
“Julian Blackthorne.” His voice hasn’t changed in fifty years. Cultured with a hint of amusement. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
Poppy looks between us. “You two know each other?”
“Old acquaintances,” Damien says. He extends his hand to her. “Damien Ashworth. Julian and I go way back. Don’t we, Julian?”
When he goes to shake mine, I don’t take his hand. Don’t trust myself to touch him without remembering Vienna. What he did. What I did in response.
