Page 111 of Julian

“I’ll call you later,” he says.

The thing is, we both know he won’t.

“Sure,” I reply.

“Goodbye.”

“Bye, Julian.”

The line disconnects.

I stand there, at a loss. I don’t know where this goes, but I know one thing… I deserve better than this.

If something’s wrong, fine. Life’s complicated. But shutting me out while pretending nothing’s happening is not the way to handle the situation.

The heat of my anger follows me all the way down the subway stairs at Canal Street, my boots echoing against the tile as I descend onto the platform. A downtown train screeches into the station. It will take me home.

But I don’t think that’s what I need now. In fact, I know it’s not.

And before I can second-guess myself, before logic or caution has a chance to interfere, I turn on my heel and head toward the opposite platform instead, where a train arrives heading uptown.

I’m going to his townhouse, and I’m going to stand in front of Julian until he stops pretending I’m a person he can simply shut out the second things become difficult. Let him tell me to my face that nothing’s wrong.

The train ride is a blur. My head is spinning by the time I climb out of the subway at Seventy-Seventh Street. Cold January air whips down Lexington Avenue as I emerge.

I replay the phone call the entire walk uptown. It was like I was an interruption, a roadblock in his day. The hurt of it keeps mutating into anger before looping back again. What the hell happened?

A few weeks ago, we were beneath Rockefeller Center, him kissing me and telling me I’m exactly who he wants to be with. He’s taken me to the Bahamas and looked at me like I’m the answer to some question he’s been asking his whole life. He’s made a point to get to know my brother.

But that seems a distant memory. That Julian has disappeared.

By the time his townhouse finally comes into view at the end of the block, my pulse is pounding hard, almost audibly. The same beautiful Gilded Age facade that once made exuded safety is now imposing, untouchable in the way wealth sometimes does when it’s protecting someone from consequences.

I stride up the front steps without slowing and knock twice.

A few seconds later, the door opens and Percy stands there in his usual immaculate suit, silver hair perfectly combed back. There’s a gravity to his expression tonight that wasn’t there before.

“Ms. Hawthorne,” he says quietly.

“I need to see Julian.”

Percy studies my face, taking in the anger and hurt I’m no longer trying to hide. Then, carefully, he steps aside to let me in.

“He’s not in a particularly good mood this evening,” Percy says as he closes the door behind me.

“I gathered that.”

Percy folds his hands behind his back before speaking again. “I will not attempt to dissuade you from this. In fact…” His expression changes, a look that’s paternal moving through it. “I believe it’s good you’ve come.”

I blink at him, surprised by his assessment.

“He needs to see you,” Percy says. “Whether he’s ready for that or not.”

Without another word, Percy turns and begins leading me deeper into the townhouse, through the long corridor toward the back of the first floor where Julian’s study sits tucked away.

The closer we get, the more nervous I become, despite my anger.

Because beneath all this frustration is a far worse fate.