“I told the truth.” His thumb traces my knuckles. “Everything between us has been real, Poppy. Whatever questions linger about me—that part is true.”
The DJ kicks into something fierce. The beach fills with dancing bodies. Violet’s in the center, sandals abandoned, spinning with joy.
And near the edge—because of course—there’s Preston. With Serenity. Both holding phones at arm’s length, filming something that looks spontaneous, but probably required thirteen takes.
“He’s doing the thing,” I say, watching them.
“The director thing?”
“The ‘position you like a prop’ thing.” I take a long sip of champagne. “I used to think it meant he cared. Turns out he just cared about the image.”
“And you?”
“I was the frame. Interchangeable.”
Julian’s hand moves to my back. “You were never interchangeable. You were just with someone who couldn’t see what he had.”
“That’s a generous interpretation.”
“It’s the truth.” He turns me to face him. “You are remarkable. Not because of how you photograph or how many followers you have. Because of who you are when no one is watching.”
“You watch me when no one else is.”
“I watch you all the time.” He lifts up my chin. “It might be becoming a problem.”
The music pulses around us. Fairy lights dance in the breeze. My sister is laughing somewhere. Fifty people are celebrating love, and I’m standing in front of a man who may not exactly be a man, feeling more seen than I have in years.
“Dance with me,” I say.
“I’m afraid I don’t dance.”
“Everyone says that.”
“I genuinely don’t. Not in crowds.”
“Julian.” I take both his hands. “My mother is watching. My ex is filming content. I need you to be my shield. Please.”
He looks at the chaos. At the variables.
Then he looks at me.
“One song,” he says.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
He leads me into the crowd. Of course, I get him to stay out there for a few songs longer. He seems to enjoy himself, even if he’s constantly on guard.
CHAPTER 17
JULIAN
Fifty people is fifty variables.
Fifty heartbeats I can’t tune out. Fifty potential threats, fifty witnesses, fifty angles of approach that Damien could exploit if he chooses to appear. The DJ’s bass line thuds through the sand, drowning out the natural rhythms I’ve learned to track over two and a half centuries.
I hate this.
Poppy’s hand tightens on mine. She’s watching me—not with the confusion of the past few days, but with something new. Understanding.
