Chapter 4

• Chapter Four
• Julian POV
• Course three, and I’m already plotting my escape.
• The amuse-bouche was some microscopic thing served on a spoon that probably cost more than my first laptop. The second course was a foam, because apparently, chewing is passé, and now we’re on something that’s been deconstructed into oblivion.
• I miss food with flavor.
• With soul.
• With purpose.
• Madison is laughing at something her mother just said. I think it’s about charity galas or seasonal color palettes. Martin is mid-rant about property taxes in Montauk, and I’m swirling a glass of wine I didn’t ask for, pretending to care about a future I never signed up for.
• It’s pomp.
• It’s polished.
• And it’s everything I was told I should want.
• But God, it’s exhausting.
• “Julian,” Madison says, laying a manicured hand over mine. “Daddy was saying we should start thinking about Tuscany for the engagement shoot. Something timeless.”
• I blink. “Engagement shoot?”
• Her mother beams. “It’s all the rage now. Pre-announcement photos. Tastefully candid, of course. And then the formal ones for the press release.”
• Madison nods eagerly, like this is the most natural thing in the world. “We could fly out next month. Stay at that vineyard I showed you. The one with the olive grove?”
• And there it is again. The invisible pressure. The assumption that my life is already promised. Packaged. Branded.
• I stare down at the fourth course, some kind of wagyu tartare with edible flowers and truffle shavings, and I feel like I’m choking on someone else’s dream.
• I take a slow breath.
• “Actually,” I say, cutting through the laughter, “I was thinking of postponing the trip.”
• Madison’s hand freezes. “What? Why?”
• “I’ve got some things I need to handle,” I lie smoothly. “Some… old business to revisit.”
• Martin raises a brow but says nothing.
• Madison tries to laugh it off. “We can move it a week or two. It’s not a big deal.”
• But she knows.
• Something’s shifting.
• Something I can’t name but can’t ignore.
• Because somewhere between courses two and four, my mind wandered off.
• To a tiny table in Brooklyn.
• To maduros and arroz con gandules.
• To the sound of Serena laughing at her own joke while stealing bites off my plate. And my Spanglish, that I swear, impressed everyone who heard it.
• She wouldn’t survive five minutes at this table.
• Too bold.
• Too messy.
• Too real.
• But she’d make this food taste better just by being there.
• She always did.
• And after three of the longest fucking hours of my life, finally, we’re on our way home.
• And by “home,” I mean the $50 million architectural marvel parked oceanfront on Meadow Lane in Southampton, the kind of address that makes old money blink and new money salivate.
• Ten bedrooms.
• Ten bathrooms.
• Three half-baths. Because God forbid someone walks too far to piss.
• All for two. Fucking. People.
• There’s a koi pond I didn’t ask for.
• A waterfall feature, Madison said, would “add tranquility.”
• An outdoor bar with imported marble counters. (With enough bourbon and rum to make a certain pirate never ask, “What happened to the rum?” ever again. My favorite place so far. I think you can see why.)
• A wine tasting room that could pass for a small Napa vineyard. Costs just as much.
• A golf simulator that Beau uses more than I do. Because like I said before, I hate fucking Golf.
• All of it, every ridiculous square foot, is a monument to the fact that CrossTech is worth a trillion dollars, and I have more money than I’ll ever spend in five lifetimes.
• I spent $23 million on it a few years back. Chump change.
• At least on paper.
• And yet…
• It feels fucking empty.
• Because the woman riding next to me in the brand-new Lamborghini Revuelto, casually checking her lipstick in the mirror like we didn’t just dodge a bullet of a forced engagement, isn’t the one who deserves this.
• She didn’t survive the ramen nights.
• She didn’t suffer the failures.
• She didn’t drag me out of coding spirals at 3 a.m. with Cafecito and her bare hands.
• She didn’t bleed for this life.
• Serena did.
• And I left her behind like she was never part of the blueprint. Because she did something unforgivable.
• The thought makes my grip tighten on the wheel. Madison doesn’t notice, too busy fixing her hair, snapping a photo with a “casual” pout for her Instagram story.
• She turns to me, smile glossy and perfect. “What are you thinking about?”
• I lie.
• Easily. Smoothly. Like a man who’s spent years perfecting the art of not bleeding in public.
• “Just glad to be out of there.”
• She leans back, satisfied with the answer.
• But my mind’s not in the car.
• It’s not in the mansion.
• It’s not in the life I’ve built.
• It’s in a cramped kitchen in the Bronx, where steam fogged up our windows and Serena’s laugh bounced off tile walls, and we dreamed together like the world owed us nothing but possibility.
• I have everything now.
• Except the only thing that ever really mattered.
• The gate swings open like the entrance to some villain’s lair, and the sensors trigger the driveway lights in sequence, like we need to be reminded how rich we are.
• The house looms ahead, all glass and steel and architectural arrogance. Like I said before. Ten bedrooms. Ten bathrooms. Three half-baths. For two people.
• Because why the hell not?
• Madison slides out of the passenger seat like she’s stepping onto a red carpet, already waving her phone to capture a “candid” shot of the sunset over the private beach.
• She doesn’t even say hello to Rosalie.
• Poor woman.
• Been with the property since before I signed the deed. Lives in the guest quarters on the far side of the estate. Doesn’t complain, doesn’t pry, but every time we walk in, I swear I see something in her eyes.
• A quiet kind of dread.
• “You there!” Madison snaps, pointing at Rosalie like she’s a pet and not a human being. “There’s lint on the floor by the staircase. And my Saint Laurents are filthy (God knows how), so take them for cleaning. And this coat smells like food. I swear that restaurant was disgusting.”
• Rosalie’s face doesn’t change.
• Not much.
• But I see it.
• That flicker. That breath she takes so she doesn’t say what she wants to say.
• Madison tosses her coat in Rosalie’s direction like it’s beneath her to place it gently, then disappears into the east wing, talking to someone on speakerphone about a brunch she’s hosting next week for people she doesn’t even like.
• I walk into the house behind her, slower, quieter.
• She calls out over her shoulder, “Don’t forget to take your shoes off. I just had the marble floors polished.”
• My jaw clenches.
• My floors.
• My house.
• But sure. I’ll take off my shoes like a guest in a hotel, I apparently just fund.
• I glance back at Rosalie.
• She’s already bent over, scooping up the lint Madison whined about with practiced, quiet grace.
• She looks up at me briefly, just a second, and in that second, everything unspoken between us passes like smoke.
• You and me both, Rosalie.
• You and me both.
• ***
• Serena POV
• By the time I get back to the loft, it’s dark out and my body is full of pernil and righteous emotional energy.
• The kind that settles in your bones but doesn’t quite burn off.
• The kind that makes you want to scream into a pillow or dance to Bad Bunny in your underwear.
• Instead, I do the next best thing.
• I kick off my boots, pull my hair into a messy bun, and grab the remote like it owes me money.
• There’s only one cure for a Julian-induced spiral, and her name is October Baseball.
• I scroll until I land on the game.
• The screen flashes to Yankee Stadium lit up like a spaceship, fans bundled in jackets and screaming their lungs out, the lights catching every swirl of cold breath and flying popcorn kernel.
• “Come on, Bronx Bombers,” I mumble, curling up on the couch. “Give me something to believe in.”
• Because if there’s one thing I can count on, it’s postseason chaos.
• Baseball in October is religion in this city. Doesn’t matter how rich you are, where you’re from, or who broke your heart. If you’re a New Yorker, this is your season.
• And I was born to root for the underdog.
• First pitch.
• Strike one.
• I exhale, letting the tension bleed out of my shoulders.
• I don’t need love.
• I don’t need closure.
• I don’t need Julian Cross and his trillion-dollar ghost hovering over my goddamn dinner.
• I just need nine innings and a miracle.
• The crowd on the screen roars.
• I scream with them.
• For the first time all day, I feel like me again.
• Just a girl, in her tiny loft, yelling at grown men in pinstripes through the TV like it matters and like they can hear me.
• And maybe tonight, it does.