I clinked my glass to his. The sound was a period.
Outside, the air was cold. I pulled my coat tight. He walked me to the car—Julian’s car. The half-million-dollar thread I kept tied to him. As long as I had something of his, he couldn’t fully disappear.
“You okay?” Jordan asked, his hand on the open door.
“I’m fine. Thank you. For dinner. And for not making this weird.”
“What choice do I have?” he said, smiling softly. “You’ve always known your own mind, Elara Vance. And I know you won’t change it for me.”
He leaned in for the usual cheek kiss. As he pulled back, my phone rang.
Symphonie Fantastique.Her ringtone.
My hand was in my bag before the first note ended. Jordan saw my whole body go still.
“Everything okay?”
“It’s Vivienne,” I said, finger hovering. “Julian’s mother. I have to take this.”
He took a step back. “Go. I get it.”
“Thank you.” I slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door.
I answered. “Mrs. Vivienne?”
“Bonsoir, ma chère,” her calm voice came through, and the knot in my chest loosened. “I am watching a terrible documentary about glaciers and thought of you. How was your community board meeting?”
As I drove away, Jordan fading in the mirror, I told her about the skeptical questions, the grant draft, the girl who finally agreed to therapy. I didn’t ask about him. She never offered. It was our ritual.
I knew these calls, every other night, were her way of reminding me her son was waiting for me. Her way of keeping me connected to the man that still held my heart.
Chapter 44
Julian
The crystal paperweight on my desk didn’t survive my mood. It left my hand and exploded against the far wall, a thousand glittering shards raining down onto the Persian rug I’d once imported from Tehran.
“Incompetent,” I hissed, my chest heaving as I stared at the closed door my Head of Logistics had just escaped through—nearly in tears. “I am surrounded by people who couldn’t find their own shadows in a lit room.”
I paced the length of the office, jaw tight, fists clenching and unclenching. The panoramic skyline annoyed me.
A year. A year since I’d stood in the rain and watched Elara drive away in my car. A year of time.
My office door opened. Without knocking or hesitation, my mother swept in like she owned the air—Vivienne Hale, immaculate in ivory silk. She didn’t spare a glance for the shattered glass, just walked straight to the decanter, poured two fingers of scotch, and set it neatly on the edge of my desk.
“The HR director is considering a group therapy session for the executive board, Julian,” she said dryly. “They claim you’ve moved past ‘demanding’ and into ‘psychologically traumatizing.’”
“They’re slow,” I snapped, halting my pacing to glare at her. “Lazy. They want to walk while I run.”
“No,” she corrected calmly, settling into the leather wingback. “They’re operating at a human pace. You’re operating at the pace of a man trying to outrun his own heart. You’re being a mean boss because you’re miserable.”
My jaw tightened hard enough to tick. “I’m not miserable. I’m focused.”
“You’re a brat,” she replied smoothly. “I spoke to Elara this morning.”
The room lost oxygen. I froze, my hand hovering inches above the scotch.
“Why?” I rasped. “Whose side are you on, Mother?”
