Chapter 2

• Chapter Two
• Julian POV
• I fucking hate golf.
• Always have.
• It’s slow. It’s quiet. It’s a sport designed by rich men who wanted an excuse to avoid their families for six hours and drink before noon.
• But I’ve made more deals on the back nine than in any boardroom. So here I am, in goddamn slacks and a polo I wouldn’t be caught dead in anywhere else, lining up a putt at some overpriced country club in the Hamptons.
• “Smile, lover boy,” Noah mutters behind me, squinting past his Ray-Bans. “You’re on the cover of Money Weekly. You should be milking this moment.”
• I don’t look up. “I don’t need to smile. I need to sink this shot.”
• “You also need a new headshot. That smirk looked like you just committed insider trading and got away with it.”
• Beau lets out a bark of a laugh. “Yeah, but that’s your thing, right? The bad boy billionaire who ‘plays by his own rules.’” He swings his club lazily, like he’s auditioning for a role he already owns. “You’re a brand now, Jules. Get used to it.”
• Julian Cross. Fintech prodigy. Disruptor. Visionary.
• And yes…fucking sellout.
• “Speaking of brands,” Noah adds, nodding toward the tennis courts, “how’s Madison?”
• Ah, yes. Madison Carter.
• Trust fund socialite. Founder of a skincare line, she swears it is cruelty-free even though she couldn’t spell retinol if it slapped her.
• She’s wearing a two-piece tennis outfit that probably cost more than my first apartment, yelling, “Good shot, babe!” while waving a racket she’s never used for anything other than Instagram content.
• “She’s… fine.”
• Beau raises a brow. “That didn’t sound convincing.”
• “She looks good in pictures. She doesn’t ask questions. She fits in.”
• And she doesn’t make me feel a damn thing.
• Noah hums. “But she’s not her, is she?”
• I shoot him a glare. “Don’t start.”
• “Too late.” He shrugs. “It’s been five years. If you’re still this edgy about it, maybe you should’ve done something before you let her go.”
• I go silent.
• The only sound is the rustle of wind through overpriced trees and the ping of a ball hitting a racket.
• I line up the putt again, but Serena’s face flashes in my mind like she’s right here, arms crossed, calling me out for this bougie performance.
• “You always hated this shit,” she’d say.
• And she’d be right.
• I sink the shot.
• But I feel nothing.
• Not even a win.
• Serena Eslinger.
• The bane of my existence in every fucking way imaginable.
• Five years after the nastiest, most emotionally nuclear breakup I’ve ever experienced, hell, nastier than anyone I know has ever experienced, and she still haunts me.
• I don’t just mean the occasional passing thought. I mean, she’s in my bloodstream. Like venom, I never fully metabolized.
• Beau hated her.
• Said she wasn’t good enough for me.
• What he meant was she wasn’t rich enough. Didn’t have the right name, the right wardrobe, the right family tree. She didn’t speak fluent Wealth, didn’t go to the right parties, didn’t post the right kind of selfies.
• But that’s exactly what I loved most about her.
• She was real.
• Raw.
• Ruthless when she had to be.
• She saw through me when no one else even bothered to look.
• Noah liked her. He didn’t say it much, but I saw it in his eyes when I walked away.
• Disappointment. Regret.
• Hell, maybe even disgust.
• And maybe I deserved it.
• But I did what I had to do.
• I chose the business. I chose the legacy. I chose what every fucking boardroom demanded I become.
• She hates me now. And I hate her right back. Or at least, that’s the line I keep telling myself.
• She’s the past. A sharp-edged memory in a studio apartment I haven’t thought about in years, except I have.
• Too much lately.
• Every time I walk into my penthouse and it’s silent.
• Every time Madison smiles that plastic smile, I realize I don’t even know what her laugh sounds like when it’s real.
• Every time I hear the clink of a spoon in a damn mug, and it reminds me of her stirring her tea, curled up on the window ledge like the world didn’t deserve her warmth.
• I’m losing it.
• No.
• I’ve already lost it.
• And maybe… maybe that’s the problem.
• It’s a Saturday afternoon at the country club, and there’s a chill in the air.
• Not just from the change in weather, though the wind does carry that early October bite, but from the company.
• I’m surrounded by everything most men spend their lives chasing: wealth, prestige, and an inner circle filled with tailored suits and inherited power. The cigar smoke wafting off the terrace reeks of arrogance and old family secrets.
• And I?
• I’m playing my part.
• Madison’s father is seated at a table away, laughing too loudly at something Beau said about IPOs and influencers. His laugh is like a threat. Throaty, performative, just this side of condescending. Her mother is nursing a mimosa and not-so-subtly glancing between Madison and me like she’s mentally wedding-planning in real time.
• The ring.
• The house.
• The press release.
• It’s too much.
• I sip my drink, something expensive and soulless, and lean back in the chair like I belong here. Like I’m not suffocating beneath all this carefully curated bullshit.
• Fake laughs.
• Passive aggression.
• Layered conversations with a thousand unsaid expectations.
• This is the life I built.
• And I can lie just as well as the rest of them.
• Maybe even better.
• I glance at Madison. She’s glowing in that polished, camera-ready way she always is. Tennis skirt. Designer shades. Skin kissed by the perfect sun-and-self-tanner combo. Her hand rests lightly on my knee. Like she owns it.
• “We should go back to St. Barth’s,” she purrs. “It’d be the perfect place to celebrate… You know.”
• I know.
• She’s been dropping hints for the last six months. Her parents, too.
• Engagement.
• A future.
• The next logical step.
• We’ve been together three years.
• Three safe, emotionally diluted, aesthetically pleasing years.
• And all I can think about is the fact that I was with Serena for nine.
• Nine years of messy, imperfect, goddamn unforgettable love.
• Of sleeping in tiny beds and making magic out of ramen noodles. Having sex on the roof of a shitty building in the middle of the Bronx and then curling up with each other like we were in the fucking Hamptons.
• Of real conversations. Real laughter. Real fucking connection.
• When we broke up, I swore I’d never get into another relationship. Swore I’d never let someone that close again.
• Marriage? That wasn’t even in the goddamn equation.
• Because it was supposed to be her.
• No one else.
• Not Madison.
• Not this world.
• Not this version of me.
• I excuse myself from the table with a bullshit smile and head for the restroom, but really, I just need air.
• Real air.
• Not the kind that’s been filtered through money, manipulation, and champagne breath.
• I step outside. Let the cold hit my skin.
• And for a moment, just one brief, traitorous moment…
• I wish she were here.
• Because Serena wouldn’t let me pretend.
• “Figured I’d find you out here.” Noah’s voice cuts through the silence just before the door clicks shut behind him.
• I don’t answer right away. Just keep my hands in my pockets and my eyes on the trees lining the edge of the golf course. Leaves are turning gold, red, and orange. Everything’s dying, but beautiful about it. Serena always loved fall. Said it reminded her that even endings could be breathtaking.
• “You looked like you were about five minutes away from flipping the charcuterie table,” Noah adds, stepping up beside me.
• “Still might.”
• He huffs a quiet laugh. “That bad?”
• “Worse.”
• “Let me guess,” he says. “The Madisons are planning a wedding you weren’t invited to.”
• I glance at him. “They’ve got a whole Pinterest board, I’m sure. Madison’s probably had her ring picked out since the first Instagram post.”
• “You gonna say yes?”
• I don’t respond. He knows the answer. Hell, I know the answer.
• “She’s not Serena,” he adds quietly.
• “Don’t.”
• “Why not? You’re thinking it.”
• “Yeah,” I admit. “Every fucking day lately.”
• We stood there for a minute. Silent. The kind of silence that only happens between people who’ve been through wars together.
• “You ever gonna reach out?” he asks.
• “No.”
• Too fast.
• Too final.
• Too fucking scared.
• Noah nods like he expected that. “Well. Let me know when you need an alibi for why you torched this place.”
• Then he claps me on the shoulder and heads back in.
• I followed a few minutes later, the cold still clinging to my skin like a second suit.
• As I step into the dining room, the volume rises again, faux-laughter, champagne clinks, performative happiness. And then I hear it.
• “There’s my son-in-law!”
• Martin Carter’s voice. Booming. Warm. Strategic.
• I keep walking toward the table, hands still in my pockets. Smile thin.
• “No,” I say coolly. “Not son-in-law. Just the shitty boyfriend that refuses to make your daughter an honest woman.”
• Madison’s head jerks slightly, smile going tight like a rubber band pulled too far. Martin just laughs. Loud and indulgent. Like I’m a boy playing grown-up in his world.
• “Ah, Julian. Always with the jokes,” he says, clapping me on the back.
• But I wasn’t joking.
• And Madison knows it.
• She squeezes my arm with the kind of affection that feels more like a warning.
• And me?
• I just sit down. Pick up my glass. And wish I were anywhere else.