Chapter 4

During dinner, Serena started crying without warning.

"It's been three months," she said softly, her voice laced with barely suppressed sobs. "I know this is sudden, telling you now… I don't even know what to do. He's gone. I'm all alone. And now there's this baby…"

Her hand drifted to her lower abdomen.

Three months.

Her husband's fatal car accident had been four months ago.

It was absurd.

"It's okay." Julian leaned forward. "The child is innocent. Whatever you need, I'll help you."

"Julian."

I cut in.

"What are you saying? Whatever she needs, you'll help? Help her with what? Where is the child's father?"

Serena's tears spilled instantly.

Julian stood. "Ivy, she just told us this, and that's all you care about?"

"You're heartless." His eyes darkened. "The first thing out of your mouth is an interrogation. Have you thought about how she feels right now?"

"Ivy, ever since your father died, you've been losing control of your emotions. You've become paranoid, unable to trust anyone—not even me." His expression was one of pure anguish.

But Julian—should I still trust you?

"Do you know what Margaret told me?" He sighed. "She said she doesn't know how to communicate with you anymore."

Serena sat on the sofa, head bowed, silent, tears falling without a sound—the very picture of someone innocently caught in the crossfire.

I took a deep breath.

"Fine," I said. "Then let me ask you one thing. How long are you going to help her?"

"Until she's through the hardest part." His answer came without a beat of hesitation. "She's my brother's widow. She needs me."

"She needs you. What about me?" My voice went cold.

Julian was quiet for one second.

Then he said: "Ivy, have you ever noticed that you can only ever see yourself?"

"All you see is yourself. This past year—do you have any idea how much I've done for you? Every breakdown, I was there. Every sleepless night, I stayed up with you. Your career, your emotions, every single one of your problems! I haven't sat out a single one. And now, all I want is to help my brother's widow get through this, and you can't even give me that?" He stared at me, his voice thick with disappointment.

If I hadn't already seen his true face, I would have believed, in that moment, that I was the heartless one.

But I couldn't tip my hand. Not yet.

His breathing quickened. "You know, sometimes I honestly don't know how much longer this marriage can last."

Serena looked up sharply. "Julian, don't say that…"

"I'm fine," he said, rubbing his brow. "Go upstairs and get some rest, all right? It's been a long day."

Serena stood and walked past me. As she did, she gave me a look that could almost pass for pity. Then she padded quietly up the stairs.

After her footsteps faded, it was just the two of us in the living room.

I stood there looking at him, forcing the fury back down.

I picked up the keys from the console table by the door.

"I'm going for a walk."

He didn't even raise his head. "Remember to take your pills when you get back."

I didn't answer. I pushed open the door.

The bar was dim and amber-lit. The bartender slid a glass of bourbon toward me. I took it but didn't drink—just held it, feeling the cool condensation bead against my palm.

You can only ever see yourself.

I replayed Julian's words. The corner of my mouth twisted into a bitter smile.

He was so good at this.

Every time, he turned my legitimate questions into proof of my delusions.

For a year.

I had genuinely believed I was sick.

I drained the glass in one go, pushed it back, signaled for another.

A second. A third.

The alcohol burned slow through my veins, making my thoughts simultaneously sluggish and razor-sharp. The past year flashed by in fragments—all those mornings I couldn't wake up, all those things I couldn't remember, all those moments his gaze rested on me, tender and remote.

Julian, when exactly did you start planning all of this?

My phone buzzed. Julian's message.

"What time are you coming home? Want me to pick you up?"

I didn't reply. I dropped the phone into my bag and ordered another.

The bartender was a woman in her forties. When she pushed the glass over, she gave me a long look. "You doing okay?"

"Just fine," I said.

She didn't ask again. Turned and walked away.

At one in the morning, I stepped out of the bar. A gust of cold wind hit me full in the face, and my head cleared a little.

I thought of the top shelf of the bedroom bookcase. The gap between two hardcover books.

Maybe that was where I'd find my answers.