Chapter 93
Julian's POV
I stared at the message, feeling my jaw tighten with irritation. Of course Isabella wanted to extend their little bonding session. Of course she'd found another excuse to keep Evelyn trapped in this performance of normalcy and friendship.
Tell her no.
I can't just tell her no. She'll ask why.
Then make something up. You're good at that.
The three dots appeared and disappeared several times before her response came through.
Julian. Please. I'm trying.
That last word—trying—deflated my irritation slightly. She was trying. I knew she was. But that didn't make it any less frustrating to sit here alone while Isabella monopolized her time, completely oblivious to the fact that Evelyn would rather be anywhere else.
I looked at the food I'd ordered, already getting cold on the counter. Looked at the refrigerator I'd filled with groceries she probably wouldn't eat. Looked at the apartment that felt emptier with every passing minute.
Fuck it.
I pulled up my contacts and scrolled to Margaret Russell—Isabella's mother, my aunt by marriage, and the one person who could rein Isabella in without raising too many questions.
She answered on the second ring, her voice warm but slightly harried. "Julian, darling. What a surprise. Is everything alright?"
"Hey, Aunt Margaret. Yeah, everything's fine. I just—" I paused, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding completely insane. "I was wondering if you could do me a favor."
"Of course, dear. What do you need?"
"Isabella's out shopping with Evelyn Valentine right now, and I think—" I scrambled for a plausible excuse. "I think she might be overdoing it. You know how she gets when she's excited about something. I'm worried she's going to exhaust herself, and with the engagement party coming up, she should probably be conserving her energy."
There was a brief pause, and I could practically hear Margaret's maternal instincts kicking into gear. "Oh dear. You're right, she does tend to overextend herself. I told her this morning not to overdo it, but you know Isabella—once she gets an idea in her head..."
"Exactly," I said, seizing on her concern. "And I heard her mention something about going to SoHo after lunch, and then maybe that new spa everyone's talking about, and I just thought—maybe you could call her? Suggest she come home and rest? She'll listen to you."
"That's very thoughtful of you, Julian." Margaret's voice had taken on that particular tone of approval she used when she thought you were being responsible. "I'll call her right now. Poor thing probably doesn't even realize how tired she is."
"Thanks, Aunt Margaret. I really appreciate it." I paused, then added: "Oh, and maybe don't mention that I called? Isabella gets embarrassed when she thinks people are worrying about her."
"Of course, dear. Our little secret." She sounded almost delighted by the conspiracy. "I'll tell her I just had a feeling she needed to come home."
"Perfect. Thanks again."
I ended the call and sat there for a moment, feeling equal parts satisfied and guilty. The excuse was ridiculous—Isabella overextending herself, needing to conserve energy for a party that was still days away—but Margaret had bought it completely because it fit her narrative of being a concerned mother who knew her daughter's limits better than Isabella did herself.
It was manipulative as hell.
It was also exactly what needed to happen.
My phone buzzed almost immediately.
What did you do?
I smiled despite myself and typed back: Solved a problem. You're welcome.
Julian.
Trust me. You'll be home soon.
The three dots appeared and disappeared several times, and I could practically feel her trying to decide whether to be grateful or annoyed.
Finally: This is going to come back to bite us, isn't it?
Probably. But at least you'll be here when it does.
---
I heard her key in the lock about fifteen minutes later. The door opened, and she stepped inside alone, shopping bags in hand, looking exhausted and relieved in equal measure.
"Isabella's gone?" I said from my position in the kitchen.
"Her mother called. Apparently there's some kind of crisis at home that requires her immediate attention." Evelyn set the bags down by the door and turned to look at me, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
"Me?" I kept my expression innocent. "What would I know about Russell family emergencies?"
"Julian."
"Fine. I called Aunt Margaret. Told her Isabella was overextending herself and needed to come home and rest before the engagement party."
She stared at me for a long moment, and I couldn't quite read her expression. Then she crossed the room in three strides and kissed me—hard and desperate and full of gratitude she didn't have words for.
When she pulled back, her eyes were bright. "That was incredibly manipulative."
"I know."
"And probably going to cause problems later when Isabella realizes there was no actual crisis."
"Probably. But it got you out of there, didn't it?" I pulled her closer. "Five hours of shopping and makeovers was enough. You looked ready to murder someone in your last text."
"I was ready to murder someone." She leaned into me, and I felt some of the tension drain from her body.
"Well, now you're free." I guided her toward the kitchen. "And I have food. Real food that you're actually going to eat."
She looked at the reheated pasta, then at the refrigerator I'd filled with groceries, and something in her expression softened. "You went shopping."
"Someone had to. Your kitchen was depressing." I handed her the container. "Expired yogurt and vodka isn't a diet, Evelyn. It's a cry for help."
"I eat," she protested weakly.
"Coffee and spite don't count as meals."
That got a small smile out of her.