30. Juliana

THIRTY

JULIANA

I haven't seen Warren Kingston since my brother's graduation six years ago.

In preparation for today, I looked him up online, thinking it might soften the blow. I found the usual stuff. CEO and founder of Kingston Entertainment. Fifty-nine years old. Two sons, Elias and Hayden Kingston, from his first marriage to Sylvia Kingston—now Sylvia Van Doren. Since his divorce, over a decade ago, Warren has remarried several times. Four, maybe five times—I don't remember. As of last year, his new wife's name is Clara, who has a six-year-old son of her own, although I didn't care to dig much deeper than that.

But... even with all my research, the escalator ride up to the fourth floor feels like an eternity. My heart palpitates in anticipation. Nothing like rekindling with your mom's ex-lover, who's also your fake boyfriend's dad, to put your mind at ease.

Just riveting.

As we step off the escalator, Hayden casually intertwines his fingers with mine. I'm about to question it until I remember. Oh right, now we really gotta act the part.

We round a corner, and my anxiety picks back up. Sensing my worry, Hayden brushes a thumb along the backside of my hand. Butterflies swarm within me at the touch, especially when I realize this is the first time we've held hands—only for embarrassment to quickly follow.

Getting jittery over some boy holding my hand. What am I, twelve years old?

"It's going to be fine," he says.

I whip my head, finding his expression strained. Why does he sound like he's reassuring himself? But there's no time to question it as we turn another corner and behold an astonishing view.

"Woah," I breathe out, as we descend a short block of steps, entering onto a secluded balcony overlooking the track. "I didn't know we were this high up. You can see everything."

Hayden hums beside me, pointing. "There's the starting gate, where they'll load in the horses." He motions to the right, toward a giant white pole in the center of the near-side track. "And there's the finish line... and the winner's circle over there..."

He trails on, until a man wearing a uniform approaches us. "May I take your coat, sir?"

"No, I'll keep it for now, thank you."

He nods respectfully, before disappearing down the balcony, hugging the railing. I raise an eyebrow, watching him go as he enters a small, secluded area, partially obscured from our view at this angle. Rows of occupied seats populate the space that's noticeably less cramped than the bleachers below, with servers gracefully balancing trays of cocktails and hors d'oeuvres on their white-gloved fingertips.

My palms grow clammy.

Billionaires' Row.

Hayden tugs me along, and slowly but surely, our vantage point expands, revealing more filled seats farther down, near the railing. As we descend a flight of stairs, passing row after row, we earn smiles and even a few waves, all of which Hayden returns. My confidence surges.

Maybe Warren won't recognize me, I think. It's been so many years, he probably forgot about my existence. Then I can say my name's... Emily or... Becka—yeah, definitely Becka. He'll go for that, right? And Hayden can just play along.

Hayden stops us at the bottommost step, before the row in front of the railing. Seated right by the stairs, clad in a striped, finely pressed suit with a full head of peppery gray hair, is Warren, who I recognize immediately.

Fear slithers its way into my headspace, but I squash it dead, plastering on a pleasant expression, while the following two seconds wane on like hours. Warren turns his head casually, meeting my knees at his eye-level, before a scowl marks his lips, his thoughts plain as day.

Don't bring one of your whores around the family...

I check my temper as his gaze travels higher up my body, and that frown grows more grotesque. That is, until he reaches my face. Upon seeing my lips, his own part on a silent gasp, and when his eyes meet mine, they burn with surprise, as if I'm a ghost who's revealed herself after slapping him on the cheek.

For a moment, he just stares, pupils blown wide.

It's scary, really, how much they all look alike. Hayden. Elias. And Warren here. Blue eyes. Strong features. With unmistakable bravado. Aged, yet so similar, except he doesn't radiate an ounce of Hayden's infectious charisma—until all that disgust slicks off him like rain, replaced by a warm smile.

"Juliana." He stands, rising to his impressive height, about two inches shy of Hayden's. "What a surprise. Hayden didn't tell me you were coming. It's so lovely to see you."

Wow. A breath escapes me. I don't know what kind of reaction I was expecting, but it wasn't a welcoming one. Feeling a sense of comfort, I return his smile. "And you too, Mr. Kingston."

At the sound of his name, something flashes in his eyes, something I can't quite explain, except that it's cold and kills the light in them as they flicker down to my hand intertwined with Hayden's. In a flash, they dart back up and that something vanishes so quickly, I wonder if I imagined the whole thing.

"It seems I approve of Hayden's date, for a change." Warren shoots his son a playful wink, then spreads his arms toward me for a hug. "Bring it here."

You're just paranoid, those little devils whisper, talking sense for a change as I unclasp from Hayden's touch. Just seeing things you think you should.

I motion forward...

I mean, look at him. He clearly cares about who Hayden dates and has even taken him under his wing at work.

Letting his arms loop around me, in a gentle embrace...

Judging a man for his past, when he seems to have chang—

Lips brush against my ear. "You look just like your mother."

Those little devils SCREAM in my headspace.

RUN, RUN, RUNNN!! they wail on my shoulder, louder than the angels crying on the other, their choir catching fire at their feet.

But I don't move a muscle— I can't. I only stand, frozen, utterly rigid, on his retreat, discovering a revolting smirk dancing across his lips. Then it, too, vanishes, fast like lightning. Dripping with disdain as his gaze drags over to Hayden.

"As usual, your lateness prevented us from saving your seat."

Hayden tenses at my side. "The race doesn't start for ten minutes."

I blink, hardly registering their conversation.

When he doesn't reply, Hayden scoffs. "What about that one, right there?"

Managing a breath, I break from my stupor, and trail a gaze down the line of chairs. Indeed, there's an empty seat right next to Warren's. One more over sits a red-haired young boy, and next to him, I catch the eyes of a woman with similar hair, presumably in her thirties. Instantly, I know it's Clara, who boasts a smirk, shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation.

"That seat's for Elias," Warren answers.

"But he doesn't watch from up here. He never has." My heart sinks at the twinge of sadness leaking into Hayden's tone, despite his stoic demeanor.

"He might this year."

Clara bites her lip, stifling a laugh, brushing a hand down her son's designer suit, who, I'd wager, is sitting where Hayden usually does. It would be so easy for her to sit him on her lap and free up the space. Under the weight of her stare once again, I feel her scrutiny, as though she views me as inferior, deserving of the bleachers below.

"Although..." Warren muses. "I'm sure Elias wouldn't appreciate knowing he made a lady stand. Juliana can have his spot."

Clara's expression cracks in half.

"W-what?" I falter. All the hairs on my body stand on end when I find Warren motioning to the empty seat right beside his.

"It'll give us time to catch up." He smiles, innocently.

The choir belts out another blood-curdling scream.

No, no, no, no—

Hayden loops his arm through mine, towing me up the stairs with an annoyed huff. "We'll manage."

By the grace of some miracle, a mere two minutes before the start of the race, a couple offered us their seats, one row behind Warren's and on the opposite end of the balcony. Apparently, Billionaires' Row has a lounge they preferred to watch from.

How very lucky for us—and generous of them.

I'm not sure if I'm thankful, though.

My eyes slither over to Warren, who's still beside a vacant chair. It's like he crawled out of my nightmares.

You look just like your mother...

I dart my focus back to the track— where it should be— and watch handlers guide each horse into the gate, securing them in their respective nooks. Jockeys sport white pants and flashy striped or polka dot uniforms, mounted on saddles with bold numbers.

Sixty seconds.

Stay focused now. Don't. Look. Don't...

Dammit. My eyes act on their own accord, swiveling to steal another peek at—

I inhale sharply, catching Warren's gaze. His body angles down the line of the track, so he's not overtly turning his head, but... there's no mistake. He's looking right at me. I snap my gaze straight ahead, cursing myself that I didn't do it sooner, as the heat of his attention burns through my skin.

"Did you see Hayzeus?" An arm drapes across the back of my chair. The moment it does, as if I got a death wish, I look again, so fast my brain hardly registers.

Whew. I'm safe.

"Jules?"

"Huh?" I glance up, finding Hayden encroaching on my space. When his knee brushes against mine, my cheeks warm for a whole different reason.

I much prefer his attention.

"I asked if you saw Hayzeus. Or did your hat get in the way?" He flicks its brim, the motion disturbing the bobby pins, in turn tugging on my scalp.

"Hey!" I swat him on the shoulder, earning a big smile I'll probably see in my dreams tonight. "Yes, I saw him." I think.

"What a specimen, am I right? He's got this in the bag. Sorry to say, but your little Canterbelle doesn't stand a chance."

I roll my eyes. "You should root for Canterbelle, too. It's your money on both of them."

His playful expression falters. "No, that's your money on your horse."

"Hayden, come on—"

"I mean it. If Canterbelle wins, you get the payout. So, it's your money."

My lips part, my mind turning up blank. "Are you joking?"

His brow furrows, as if offended. "Of course not, baby. Why would I be?"

I can't hide my smile, feeling a flutter in my chest, strong enough to overlook what he called me.

Settling back in his chair, he props an ankle atop his knee, an arm still draped across my chair, wearing a look of... pride? Absentmindedly, his fingertips brush across my bare shoulder. "Besides"—he strokes some more, making it hard to think—"this is all for fun. We didn't bet much."

"Ha. Ha. Now you're just messing with me."

"Hmm?"

"How is ten thousand dollars not that much? Come on, Hayden. No need to prove anything. I know you're rich and all, but no one thinks that's a fun-sized bet."

He snickers.

"What's so funny?"

"These seats were thirty grand."

What?!

"A piece."

WHAT?!

A deep chuckle escapes him. "God, you're cute."

My head spins. Oh my—

BANG!

I whip my head toward the noise, just in time to catch the horses blazing out of their gates. "And they're off!" the announcer blares through the speakers. My heart lurches in rhythm to their hooves, kicking up dirt as they battle for the inner rail.

I search through their ranks, realizing I don't have a clue who is who. "Uhh..."

"You little fibber," Hayden murmurs. "You didn't see Hayzeus, did you?"

My teeth sink into my lower lip, earning a tsk, tsk, tsk from his tongue.

"Canterbelle is number fourteen. Riiiiight—there." He points. "Ohhh, he's in the middle of the pack. Not bad, not bad. Nothing like my number two, though, in red. Right th—"

I look over, finding him aghast, then follow the line of his gaze. Number two...? "Uh, oh. Seems the first pick isn't doing so hot. Is he... behind Canterbelle?" I watch in disbelief, as they sprint down the near stretch, approaching the first bend.

"No, no, no, that can't be right."

"Wait..." I gasp.

"It's Canterbelle, surging through the pack!"

"Oh my god!" I smack Hayden's arm as he buries his face into his palms, riddled with shame, watching through the slits of his fingers.

As they round the second and final bend, my chest heaves wildly. Canterbelle is right there in the lead, neck and neck, with another horse.

"It's Canterbelle and Practical Choice, on the home stretch, pulling ahead! Four lengths... Five lengths... Six! They're stride for stride, arriving into the final furlong! Ohhh, it's coming down to the wire. Who's it gonna be?! Oh my goodness, it's a photo finish!!!"

The crowd roars as they cross the tall white post, at the exact same time. Bright camera flashes light up the finish line in rapid succession, capturing the spectacular moment. Calamity rocks the floors below, shaking the foundations of Churchill Downs. Cheers pour through the air, as thousands of spectators leap to their feet.

Hayden and I, we're no exception.

Actually, we're the most rambunctious pair on the entire balcony. Amidst high society who clap politely and exchange courteous nods, we laugh in each other's arms, jumping and wooing and squealing like little kids, forgetting all the rules that bind us, blurring the lines between reality and the terms of our contract, until they're as indistinguishable as the trampled finish line below.

All while, the world awaits a picture-perfect decision...