Chapter 4
“To beginnings,” Derek proclaimed, his voice dripping with that polished, private-school warmth that used to make my stomach flip and now only made it curdle. “And to never looking back.”
The room responded with a synchronized ripple of laughter and the chiming of three hundred crystal glasses. For a second—just a second—Derek’s eyes swept past the VIP tables toward the edge of the marquee, grazing the exact shadow where Julian and I stood. My throat closed. My pulse hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Then, before Derek could focus on my green dress, a pair of gray-haired men in bespoke charcoal suits stepped onto the apron of the platform, intercepting Derek with enthusiastic claps on the shoulder. Donors. Trustees. Men whose annual charitable write-offs exceeded the total net worth of my entire lineage. Derek instantly turned his dazzling smile toward them, swallowed up by a wall of back-slapping corporate camaraderie.
The immediate execution was stayed. But the executioner had merely paused to sharpen his axe.
Beside me, Julian didn’t look at Derek. Not once. His eyes remained fixed on my face, watching the color drain from my cheeks and rush back into my throat. The grip of his fingers between mine was so firm, so completely steady, that it felt like the only thing keeping the parquet floor from tilting beneath my heels.
“Breathe,” Julian murmured again. It was barely a breath against my hair. “He’s occupied. The toast is over for now. Let’s get a glass of water.”
“I told you, I don’t need water,” I said through clenched teeth, though my knees felt like wet paper. I tried to pull my hand back, but his fingers remained threaded through mine, not squeezing, just resting there with an immovable density that defied my panic. “And you need to let go of my hand, Julian. People are looking.”
“Let them look,” he said. “You paid me to act like I can’t bear to be four inches away from you. This is what it looks like.”
Before I could snap back that holding hands like lifelong sweethearts was entirely distinct from looking like an arrogant trophy date, a sharp, patronizing voice cut through the ambient clatter of silver dessert forks.
“Clara? Good heavens, it *is* you.”
I stiffened so violently that Julian’s shoulder absorbed the jolt.
Walking toward us from the central aisle was Dr. Beatrice Miller, flanked by her husband, Arthur, and two senior associates from the county historical preservation trust. Beatrice was a woman carved out of cold marble and high-society pedigree; she had spent twenty years running the regional archives committee with an iron fist, and four years ago, when Derek had first introduced me to her at an alumni brunch, she had looked at my linen trousers as if I were a stray raccoon that had wandered into a gallery. When Derek broke our engagement and told everyone I was ‘taking time away to manage my emotional instability,’ Beatrice had quietly revoked my access to the foundation’s rare manuscript collection.
“Dr. Miller,” I managed, forcing a polite nod while my stomach twisted into a knot. “Arthur. What a surprise.”
“A surprise indeed,” Beatrice said, her sharp, pale eyes sweeping over me with the clinical detachment of an appraiser examining a chipped vase. Her gaze lingered on the bare skin of my shoulders, then dropped to my clutch, and finally snapped up to Julian. “When Derek mentioned you might attend, we assumed it was mere wishful thinking. He was quite concerned about whether a crowd of this size would be... overstimulating for your constitution.”
The word *constitution* hung in the air like a wet rag. Arthur gave a small, uncomfortable cough into his napkin, clearly embarrassed, but Beatrice pressed forward with that razor-thin, socialite malice that masqueraded as maternal concern.
“And how is the freelance work going, my dear?” Beatrice asked, tilting her head. “Are you still taking on those little private scrapbooking commissions out of your apartment? I did hear a rumor that you had to vacate the studio space on Fourth Street. It must be so difficult, trying to maintain an archival practice without institutional backing. Derek always said your passion was admirable, if somewhat... unmoored from practical reality.”
My jaw locked so hard my teeth ached. The familiar, toxic shame began to rise like bile in my throat. I had spent two years working sixty-hour weeks in freezing basement repositories, restoring water-damaged town charters from the eighteen-hundreds, breathing in toxic mold and vinegar-decayed cellulose just to earn eight hundred dollars a commission. Derek had called it an expensive hobby. Beatrice had treated it like occupational therapy.
I opened my mouth, searching for a defense—any defense—that wouldn't sound defensive, small, or pathetic.
Julian took a half-step forward.
He didn’t drop my hand. Instead, he shifted his stance, placing himself just a fraction of an inch ahead of me, his broad frame immediately commanding the space between Beatrice and my crumbling dignity. He looked down at Beatrice with an expression of mild, aristocratic amusement, the kind of look a seasoned diplomat gives a misbehaving child.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Miller,” Julian said, his baritone cutting through the low murmur of the tent with crisp, effortless authority. “Did you refer to Clara’s work as *scrapbooking*?”
Beatrice blinked, visibly taken aback by the interruption. She adjusted the heavy pearl necklace at her throat, sizing Julian up. His tuxedo was bespoke, his posture absolute, his voice carrying the effortless cadence of someone who was used to addressing lecture halls full of department chairs.
“I was merely inquiring about her independent contracts,” Beatrice replied, her tone stiffening. “And you are?”
“Julian,” he said simply, refusing to offer a surname or a business card, leaving the vacuum of his identity to intimidate her. “And I find it curious that someone who sits on the regional heritage board is so remarkably ill-informed about the foremost paper conservator in the state.”
A nervous ripple went through the two associates standing behind Beatrice. Arthur looked between Julian and me, his eyes widening slightly.
“I assure you, sir, I am well aware of the state’s archival projects,” Beatrice bristled, her chin tilting up. “Clara has done modest salvage work, but without university accreditation—”
“Clara spent the last seven months single-handedly stabilizing the 1782 maritime charts for the Saint Jude’s Coastal Herbarium,” Julian interrupted, his voice dropping into a smooth, devastating rhythm. “Fourteen oversized vellum folios that three separate university teams declared a total loss due to iron-gall ink corrosion. She developed a non-aqueous calcium phytate treatment in a climate-controlled micro-chamber she built with her own hands. The state historical society didn't just grant her a commendation; they’re rewriting the regional salvage manual based on her restoration methodology.”
The marquee tent seemed to go dead silent.
I stared at the side of Julian’s face, my mouth slightly open, my brain short-circuiting in real time.
Saint Jude’s Coastal Herbarium? The 1782 maritime charts?
I *had* worked on those charts. I remembered the scent of the salted vellum, the tiny fractures in the black ink lines depicting long-vanished shoals, the bone-deep ache in my neck after six hours leaning over a stereomicroscope with a sable-hair brush. It was the proudest achievement of my entire professional life. It was a project that had saved my sanity during the darkest, loneliest winter after Derek left.
