Chapter164 Morning After Revelations
Julian: POV
I woke up to the worst headache of my life and the distinct sensation that someone's leg was draped over mine.
My eyes snapped open. Hotel room. Unfamiliar ceiling. The acrid taste of whiskey coating my tongue like I'd gargled with it before passing out.
And Blake's face approximately six inches from mine on the pillow.
"What the fuck," I croaked, my voice like gravel scraped over broken glass.
I shoved him hard enough that he tumbled off the bed with a satisfying thud and a very undignified yelp. He landed on the carpet in a tangle of expensive sheets, blinking up at me with the bewildered expression of a man who'd been rudely awakened.
"Jesus Christ, Julian!" He scrambled to his feet, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Good morning to you too, asshole."
"Why the hell are you in my bed?" I sat up too fast and immediately regretted it as the room tilted sideways. "And why am I shirtless?"
Blake gave me a look that suggested he was reconsidering our entire friendship. "You really don't remember last night, do you?"
Fragments came back in nauseating flashes. The bar. Too much whiskey. Blake showing up. More whiskey. Me refusing to go back to the penthouse because—
"I said I didn't have a home anymore," I muttered, the memory surfacing like a corpse in dark water. "That nowhere without Elena was home."
Blake's expression softened slightly. "Yeah. You said that. Multiple times. Along with several variations on how pathetic your life is without her."
I closed my eyes. "Fuck."
"You also," Blake continued with careful tone, "stripped off your shirt because you puked all over it. Then you started crying about how Elena used to help you with your tie and—"
"Stop talking." I held up a hand, nausea rising. "Please stop talking."
"You begged me to stay," he said anyway. "You grabbed my arm and said you couldn't be alone because every time you closed your eyes you saw her face. You literally pulled me onto the bed."
"That doesn't explain why your leg was on top of mine."
"You're a cuddler when you're drunk, apparently." Blake's mouth twitched. "Who knew the great Julian Sterling turns into a needy octopus after eight whiskeys?"
"I hate you."
"Yeah, well, I'm not thrilled either." He moved to the coffee maker, movements stiff with exhaustion. "For the record, I spent most of the night trying not to get kicked while you thrashed around having nightmares about Elena drowning."
The image hit me like a fist to the solar plexus. Elena in the East River. Her body never found. The coast guard calling off the search while I knelt on the bridge like a fucking statue, waiting for a miracle that never came.
Except it had. She was alive. Somewhere in this city, breathing and living a life that didn't include me.
"I need you to know," Blake said quietly, handing me black coffee, "that despite what just happened, I am extremely heterosexual and have zero interest in you romantically."
I took the coffee, "The feeling is mutual."
"Good. Because you kept mumbling about how I was 'a good friend' and honestly, it was getting weird." He paused. "You also called me 'pretty.'"
"I'm going to kill you."
"After I saved you from choking on your own vomit? Ungrateful."
I took a long drink of coffee, letting the bitter heat scald away some of the fog. My phone was on the nightstand, screen cracked from where I'd apparently thrown it. Seventeen missed calls from Adrian, three from my mother, and one from Arthur.
"Did I—" I started.
"Try to drunk-dial Elena approximately forty-seven times? Yes." Blake sat on the bed edge. "Alexander too."
"I need you to stop talking about last night."
"Fair enough." He sipped his coffee. "But Julian, we need to talk about what you're actually going to do. Because stalking her across London while emotionally spiraling isn't a plan."
He was right. But the thought of not seeing her, of not trying to make her remember—
"I already told you," I said roughly. "I'm hiring Damien Ashford. I need to know everything about the last four years. Where she's been. How she ended up with Alexander." I paused, my chest tight. "And the child."
Blake's expression was grave. "You're sure you want to go down this road? Because once you confirm that little girl is yours—there's no going back."
"She could be my daughter." The words felt like broken glass in my throat. "Blake, that child could be mine. How the hell am I supposed to walk away from that?"
"Good." He stood, stretching with a wince. "Now get in the shower. You smell like a distillery fucked a dumpster."
"Charming."
"Also," he added, heading for the door, "you owe me for last night. Emotional labor and the fact that I had to listen to you drunkenly philosophize about Elena's eyes being 'like whiskey in sunlight' for forty-five minutes."
"How much?"
"I'll send you an invoice." He paused, expression softening. "But Julian? I hope you find what you're looking for. I hope that little girl is yours. And I hope Elena remembers."
He left before I could respond, the door clicking shut with finality that made my chest ache.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at my cracked phone screen. Then I pulled up my contacts and scrolled to a number I'd saved but never called.
Damien Ashford. Former MI6. Current miracle worker for people who could afford his rates.
I typed out a message:
Need you to find someone. Elena Hunt. And her daughter. Everything about the last four years. Start immediately.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself.
My thumb hovered over send. Wife. She wasn't my wife anymore. We'd signed the papers. I'd watched her walk away.
But she was alive. And that changed everything.
I sent the message.
Then I dragged myself into the shower and let scalding water wash away the whiskey and self-pity and the memory of Blake's leg on top of mine.
By the time I emerged, my phone was ringing.
Unknown number.
I answered. "Sterling."
"Mr. Sterling." The voice was clipped, British, efficient. "Damien Ashford. I received your messages. I can start immediately, but I'll need more information. Last known location, physical description, any associates—"
"Harrods," I interrupted. "Yesterday afternoon. She was with Alexander Sterling and a little girl, approximately four years old." I paused, my throat tight. "The child has brown hair. Elena's eyes."
There was brief silence on the other end.
"Understood," Ashford said finally. "I'll have preliminary findings within forty-eight hours. Full report within the week."
"I need it faster."
"Mr. Sterling, this kind of work requires—"
"I'll double your fee." My voice was flat, brooking no argument. "Triple it. I don't care. I need answers quickly."
"Alright," Ashford said. "Twenty-four hours for preliminary findings. But I'll need a retainer transferred immediately."