Really listened.
I told him about the affair.
The divorce.
The carefully crafted invitation.
The handwritten request that I come alone.
When I finished, Julian leaned back.
“So what do you want from Saturday?”
“To make Mason jealous.”
“No.”
I blinked.
“No?”
“You don’t want him back.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then jealousy isn’t the goal.”
He tapped one finger against his coffee cup.
“You want him to realize that leaving you didn’t ruin you.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
I looked away.
“Maybe.”
Julian smiled softly.
“That’s much easier.”
“How?”
“Because we don’t have to convince anyone you’re desirable.”
He held my gaze.
“We just have to make sure you remember it.”
For a second, I forgot this man had been hired.
Then he grinned.
“And if your ex suffers a mild existential crisis in the process, that’s included in the package.”
I laughed again.
“All right, actor. What’s our story?”
For the next hour, we invented a relationship.
We’d been dating five months.
We met at a gallery opening.
Julian worked in entertainment consulting.
We both liked old films.
He hated olives.
I loved them.
We had supposedly spent a weekend in Charleston.
“Physical affection?” he asked.
“Hand-holding is fine.”
“Arm around waist?”
“Fine.”
“Kissing?”
I nearly choked.
“Absolutely not.”
He lifted both hands.
“Professional boundaries. Understood.”
By the time we left the café, I felt strangely calm.
Saturday was supposed to be revenge.
I didn’t know it was about to become something far messier.
The afternoon of Mason’s wedding, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror wondering whether I had lost my mind.
I wore a deep emerald dress with an open back, simple gold earrings, and heels that were beautiful enough to justify the pain they would inevitably cause.
At exactly five thirty, my doorbell rang.
Julian stood outside in a black tuxedo.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he smiled.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Your ex is going to have an extremely difficult evening.”
I laughed.
“That’s what I’m paying you for.”
Julian offered his arm.
“No. You’re paying me to eat expensive food and lie convincingly.”
“And the existential crisis?”
“Complimentary.”
We drove to the vineyard.
The ceremony began at five.
We arrived at six fifteen.
That part was deliberate.
I had no desire to watch Mason promise lifelong loyalty to a woman he’d met while breaking that same promise to me.
I wanted the reception.
The crowd.
The moment of recognition.
Nothing more.
At least that’s what I told myself.
Hawthorne Ridge looked like something from a bridal magazine.
String lights stretched across the terrace.
White roses covered the tables.
A jazz quartet played beside the fountain.
Waiters moved between guests carrying champagne.
Julian stepped out of the car first and offered me his hand.
“You ready?”
“No.”
“Perfect.”
I stared at him.
He smiled.
“Confidence is just panic with better posture.”
I laughed, took his arm, and walked inside.
People noticed us immediately.
Some of them were former friends.
Some were Mason’s colleagues.
Several had attended our wedding seven years earlier.
I saw recognition flicker across their faces.
Then curiosity.
Then the inevitable glance toward Julian.
I straightened my shoulders.
For the first time, I understood the brilliance of having an actor beside me.
Julian never looked uncertain.
He leaned toward me when I spoke.
His hand rested lightly against my back.
Whenever someone stared too long, he smiled at me like I was the only person in the room.
It was convincing.
Almost dangerously convincing.
Then I saw Mason.
He was standing near the bar with two men from his firm.
His face brightened when he noticed me.
For half a second, he looked pleased.
He had gotten what he wanted.
His lonely ex-wife had arrived.
Then his eyes moved to Julian.
And Mason stopped smiling.
I had imagined that moment dozens of times.
I expected irritation.
Jealousy.
Maybe surprise.
What I saw was something entirely different.
Fear.
Mason’s champagne glass froze halfway to his mouth.
His face drained of color.
Beside me, Julian stopped walking.
I felt the muscles in his arm tighten.
“Julian?”
He didn’t answer.
He was looking past Mason.
Toward the bride.
Vanessa stood near the center of the room wearing a fitted satin gown, speaking with an older couple.
She turned.
Her gaze landed on me.
Then on Julian.
The smile vanished from her face.
She dropped her champagne glass.
It hit the floor and shattered.
Several people turned.
I stared at Julian.
“What the hell is happening?”
His jaw tightened.
Then, without looking at me, he whispered,
“Keep smiling.”
“Why?”
“Because I know the bride.”
My stomach twisted.
“How?”
He finally looked at me.
“Claire…”
He took a breath.
“Vanessa was my fiancée.”
For one second, every sound in the room disappeared.
I stared at him.
“Your what?”
“We were engaged.”
“You knew she was marrying Mason?”
“No.”
“Julian—”
“I swear to you, I had no idea.”
Across the room, Mason was already coming toward us.
Fast.
Julian lowered his voice.
“I’ll explain everything. But not here.”
I should have left.
Any rational person would have.
Instead, I looked at Mason approaching with panic written all over his face.
Then at Vanessa, who looked like she’d seen a dead man walk into her wedding reception.
And something inside me said:
Not yet.
I slipped my hand into Julian’s.
“Then smile.”
He looked at me.
“You sure?”
“No.”
