Chapter 20

Chapter 20
Clara's POV

With Leo's hand warm on my arm, I tried to steady my breathing.

Art dealers discussed provenance. Collectors studied auction catalogs. Nobody else seemed to have noticed the brief exchange that had left my pulse racing.

"You okay?" Leo asked quietly.

"Fine." I turned back to the textile preview, forcing my attention onto a sixteenth-century silk panel that deserved better than my distracted scrutiny. "Just didn't expect him to try talking to me like we're old colleagues."

Leo's expression tightened. "He looked like hell."

"That's not my problem anymore."

But even as I said it, something uncomfortable twisted in my chest. Julian had looked exhausted in a way that went beyond late board meetings or jet lag. The careful control he usually wore like armor had slipped, revealing something raw underneath that I didn't want to examine too closely.

A waiter passed with champagne. I took a glass I wouldn't drink and used it as a prop, something to do with my hands while I pretended the last five minutes hadn't rattled me.

"Clara Hayes."

I turned to find Vivian Vance standing three feet away. Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass.

"Vivian." I kept my voice neutral. Professional. The way you'd greet someone you barely remembered from a previous life.

Her gaze flicked to Leo, then back to me. "I didn't realize Christie's extended invitations to Julian's former staff."

The insult landed exactly where she intended. I felt Leo tense beside me, ready to defend, but I touched his arm lightly. Let him see I didn't need protecting from someone this transparent.

"I'm here as a textile authentication consultant," I said evenly. "Edward Marsh invited me personally. We were just discussing his Geneva collection."

Something flickered in Vivian's perfect features. Surprise, maybe, that I hadn't crumbled under her contempt. She opened her mouth to respond, but Julian appeared at her elbow, his hand finding the small of her back in a gesture that looked practiced. Performative.

"Vivian." His voice carried a warning I recognized from our marriage. The tone he used when someone was about to embarrass him publicly.

She allowed herself to be guided away, but not before throwing one last look over her shoulder. The kind of look that promised this wasn't finished.

Leo exhaled slowly. "That woman is poison."

"She's scared." I watched them disappear into the next gallery. "She knows Julian well enough to recognize when his attention is somewhere else."

"His attention shouldn't be anywhere near you."

"I know." But my hands were shaking slightly around the champagne glass, and I hated that Vivian's brief appearance had managed to destabilize the confidence I'd built over the last hour. I set the glass down on a passing tray before Leo could notice.

We moved through the remaining galleries, but the evening's momentum had shifted. I made polite conversation with a curator from Boston, exchanged cards with a private dealer based in Hong Kong, but part of my attention stayed trained on the crowd, tracking Julian and Vivian's movements like a prey animal monitoring predators.

It was nearly ten when I told Leo I needed to leave. Hope would be waking soon for her late feeding, and Margaret had texted twice with updates that suggested the baby was getting fussy. But more than that, I felt drained in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion. Being in the same room as Julian and Vivian, watching them play their parts in whatever performance his mother had orchestrated, had reopened wounds I'd thought were healing.

"Thank you." I meant it. "For everything. The introduction to Marsh, the support, just being there."

"Always." He kissed my cheek, brotherly and warm. "Text me when you get home."

I was halfway into the car when I heard my name. Not shouted, but clear enough to carry across the plaza. I turned to find Julian standing near the gallery entrance, alone, his tuxedo jacket open despite the cold. Vivian was nowhere in sight.

Every instinct told me to get in the car and leave. But something in his posture made me hesitate. He looked uncertain in a way I'd never seen during our marriage, stripped of the aggressive confidence that usually defined him.

"I'll wait," Leo said quietly, reading my hesitation.

I walked back toward Julian slowly, giving myself time to rebuild the defenses Vivian had cracked. We met halfway, in the empty space between the gallery entrance and the street, close enough that I could see the exhaustion carved into his features but far enough that leaving remained an option.

"What do you want, Julian?"

He took a breath that looked like it cost him something. "Dinner. This weekend. At the house in the Hamptons. Just the two of us."

The request was so unexpected that I actually laughed, sharp and disbelieving. "You want me to have dinner with you? At your family estate?"

"My house." His correction came quick. "Not my mother's. She won't be there. I'll make sure of it."

"Why would I possibly agree to that?"

"Because I need to tell you something." He held my gaze, and I saw something in his eyes that looked uncomfortably close to desperation. "About my family. About plans that are already in motion. Things you need to know before they happen."

My stomach dropped. "What plans?"

"Not here." He glanced back at the gallery, where guests were beginning to trickle out. "Saturday evening. I'll send a car at seven. You can leave whenever you want. But please, Clara. Just hear me out."

I should have said no. Should have gotten in Leo's car and driven away without looking back. But something in Julian's voice, in the careful way he was holding himself together, suggested this wasn't manipulation. It was something closer to fear.

"One dinner," I said. "Two hours, maximum. And if this is some kind of trap—"

"It's not." He exhaled like I'd lifted a weight he'd been carrying. "Thank you."

He started to reach for me, then caught himself, his hand dropping back to his side. The gesture felt more honest than anything else that had passed between us tonight.

I returned to Leo's car without looking back. As we pulled away from Rockefeller Center, I caught one last glimpse of Julian standing alone on the plaza, watching us leave. And for the first time since I'd walked out of his penthouse eight months ago, I wondered if I actually knew him at all.

"You said yes," Leo observed as we merged into traffic.

"I did."

"Want to tell me why?"

I thought about Julian's exhaustion, about the way he'd said "plans that are already in motion" like he was warning me about something he couldn't control. About Vivian's possessive hand on his arm and the performance they'd both been giving all evening.

"Because something's wrong," I said finally. "And whatever it is, it involves Hope."

Leo was quiet for several blocks. "I'm coming with you."

"No." I turned to look at him. "Whatever this is, I need to face it myself. But I'll keep my phone on. And if anything feels wrong, I'll call you immediately."

He didn't look happy, but he nodded.

Back in Brooklyn, I paid Margaret and checked on Hope, who was sleeping peacefully in her crib. I stood there watching her breathe, my daughter who looked more like Julian every day, and tried to quiet the anxiety Julian's invitation had triggered.

What plans?