Page 112 of Ungodly Rich

Clutching the flashlight from her emergency kit, Julia headed down the staircase to the second floor. At the door to Harry’s room, she pressed the card over the reader. To her relief, the door clicked open.

“Harry?” she whispered, and walked inside. Then she went completely still.

Harry was in bed—and he wasn’t alone.

At first Julia didn’t compute the scene before her. It made no sensethat Valentine was in bed with Harry, her blond hair tumbled gloriously over the pillows, her bare chest draped over his. The way they were tangled together, both naked—there was no question of what had happened earlier.

Julia wanted to scream, but no sound escaped her lips, not even a breath.

She should run forward and slap them both awake. She should shout until everyone in the building woke, until the whole family knew what hateful, hurtful liars Harry and Valentine were. She should throw this flashlight at Harry’s handsome face.

Yet Julia felt paralyzed. She did nothing but stand there, unable to think over the roaring in her ears.

Somehow, she backed up and closed the door behind her with the gentlest of clicks. She thought she heard Valentine stir as she left, but it was too late; Julia was already running back toward the staircase, the beam of the flashlight swinging erratically over the walls. Her body convulsed with aftershocks of anguish, pain reverberating through her like a burn.

In the midst of all the hurt, she felt anger. Julia grabbed tight to that anger like a leash. Anger was the easiest emotion to face. Anger would keep her moving, whereas if she confronted her heartbreak, she might crumple up in bed and never leave.

Then she would have to face Harry in the morning, and worse, Valentine.

Had they been sleeping together ever since Julia and Harry moved to New York? She thought again of Valentine’s possessiveness, of the smug way she always stared at Julia.

Hadn’t she sensed that Harry was keeping something from her?

Yes, she thought darkly, it must have been happening the whole time. She would be a fool to think otherwise.

Back on the third floor, Julia raced down the hallway to another room, one she’d been in only hours before.

After the Ellene family dinner, which Abby had good-naturedly joined, the two best friends had retreated to Abby’s room.We can go to my suite,Julia had offered, but Abby was already opening various jars ofcandy from the minibar and blasting Taylor Swift.I bought these face masks at the airport,Abby had offered, pulling a pair of squishy gel masks from her carry-on.Should we try them?

The masks were, inexplicably, scented like peppermint, and printed orange with black spots and cat whiskers. Julia and Abby had debated whether they were leopards or cheetahs, then wasted a ridiculous amount of time googling the difference between the two. They discussed their jobs, gossiped about Harry’s family, and reminisced about college.

They had laughed so hard that Julia’s sides hurt, both unconcerned about the rain pattering against the windows. Both were supremely confident that this wedding would take place, and Julia would have her happily ever after.

What a difference a day had made.

Julia knocked at the door. A few moments later, Abby opened it with a bleary yawn. Her eyes widened when she saw the stricken expression on Julia’s face.

“Julia? Are you okay?”

“No. I’m not okay,” she replied, her voice small.

Abby didn’t ask what had happened. She just opened the door wider, tugging Julia inside and opening her arms.

Julia stepped into them, leaning her head on her friend’s shoulder, and began to weep.

She cried for her and Harry, for the trust that was irrevocably shattered. She cried for herself, that she’d once again given her heart to a man who didn’t deserve it.

“Harry…Harry was…,” she tried to say between sobs, but the words wouldn’t come.

Julia hated Harry for sleeping with Valentine. And at the same time, somehow, she still loved him.

Maybe love wasn’t like a fire, something to be extinguished in a single dramatic moment, even by an act of betrayal. Maybe it was more like a carving on an ancient tablet. It would erode over time, until you could barely see the faded traces of its mark on your heart.

“Harry and I are not getting married,” she said at last, tears still streaming down her face.

Abby guided Julia to sit on the bed, wrapped the downy duvet around her like a cloak. “Shh, it’s okay,” Abby kept murmuring. “Whatever happened, it’s all going to be okay.”

After a while, Julia’s sobs subsided. She looked up at Abby, who was watching her with obvious concern.