41. Juliana

FORTY-ONE

JULIANA

By some miracle, I didn't throw up last night.

Not during the insufferably quiet car ride—although the thought of emptying my guts all over his pearly-white interior was quite tempting. But alas, I held it back, even in the penthouse's private elevator and the kitchen, when Hayden force fed me bread while badgering about drinking water. And, by the looks of it, my bed made it out okay, too.

All alone in my room, I squint at the morning sun streaming in through the windows. I hate to admit it, but I missed this bed—but not as much as I miss Hayden's. I scoff with no one to hear, before quickly convincing myself it's because of the Egyptian cotton sheets. They were properly hyped-up.

I don't remember everything that happened last night, but I can recall the important bits, including some choice words I said to Hayden. All an accumulation of built-up rage from the past five days that spilled over. And the worst part of it all? He just sat there and listened, letting me get everything out, letting my voice boom through the penthouse like a vicious onslaught, while he nursed my drunkenness.

It makes hating him that much harder.

But my trust is shattered, like irreparable glass.

Sitting up in bed, I wince at the dull ache throbbing in my temple. It should be worse, I know. I scan the room, discovering things that palpitate my twisted heart.

A tall glass of water on my nightstand beside a bottle of Advil. I take two. A bucket on the ground by my side of the bed, presumably for throw up. It's empty. A long pillow laid across where my back was while asleep—this one chokes me up the most.

He followed the cardinal rule of drinking: when someone's on the verge of blacking out, lay them on their side and position a pillow along their back to prevent choking if they vomit in their sleep.

I shouldn't be surprised. Hayden is a professional at this whole partying thing, which is why, even while having taken such a precaution, there's still a large imprint atop the comforter on the opposite side of the bed. He must've laid there once I fell asleep after screaming him out of my room.

That, I remember, and wish I had forgotten.

Remorse shivers through me, doubling in intensity when I spot the most thoughtful of all his gestures, resting on the bench at the foot of the bed.

Breakfast.

My stomach growls at the sight—and what a sight it really is. Meticulously plated on a wooden tray meant for bed, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and a glass of orange juice complement the main dish. An omelet. Stuffed with chopped peppers and seasoned with parsley flakes, the eggy, cheesy goodness is not only cooked but folded so perfectly, I know it was Hayden's doing.

What a surprise it was, learning a billionaire's son—who no doubt splurges on Michelin-star meals—is an impressive cook himself. Hayden prepares most of his own meals and intentionally cooks in moderate amounts, leaving little to no leftovers.

I had the pleasure of tasting his first dish two weeks ago, a few nights after the derby. Steak, lobster risotto, and roasted Brussels sprouts out on the terrace as the sun dipped below the horizon—

No. Stop that. Am I a masochist all of a sudden?

Pushing the memory away, I crawl across the sheets before settling back under them, positioning the tray over my lap on its two legs. Cutting a wedge off the omelet, I groan on my first bite, then stifle the sound, stubbornly. Then do it all over again with the next taste. I would've never thought it possible to chew defiantly, but I do, until only crumbs remain.

I stare at them, then at the imprint on the bed and the Advil on my nightstand, effectively flaring the guilt in me. I heave a sigh. Drunk and taken against my will or not, I should apologize for last night. I was quite an unpleasant abductee.

After a quick shower, I patter my bare feet out of my room, pass through the kitchen and attached dining room, all while trying not to think about how accustomed I've become to the penthouse, until I end up outside Hayden's door.

Nerves trickle through me—only to dissipate when I open the door and find the grand bedroom empty. Same with his bathroom, as well as the main living room and the terrace. For ten minutes or so, I search and search throughout the penthouse, flinging open doors— gosh, there are a lot of them— just for the rooms to turn up empty.

And with every knob I twist, something strange yet still predictable happens...

I grow angrier.

Why am I the one on the hunt for him? Why am I even looking for him? So what if he nursed me back to health for one night? He conspired with his father to ruin. My. Life. And last night, sure, I went off the handles, but he could've at least said the word sorry. For anything.

Perhaps he knew you didn't want to hear it, a little angel suggests.

I flick her off my shoulder, at the exact moment my irritation proves clarifying. I know where he is. Why didn't I think of it sooner? I breeze through the penthouse, letting muscle memory do the work, while my brain's too busy conjuring up the next nasty thing I'll say when I find him.

It brews and it brews, some hateful concoction on my journey through the main living room, up the floating staircase, through the ballroom and into the server's wing, until I'm bounding like a lethal tempest down the hallway.

Toward his studio.

I should just leave and not make things any worse, but the retribution is too tempting. Even an ounce of it. That's all I can afford, really—hurling atrocities his way, so maybe he'll know just a fraction of what it felt like standing by that stage, at the summit of all you've worked for, only to witness your future slip between your fingers like sand.

Hastening my steps, the studio door draws near, until I graze that final knob and instantly whip it back, as the past month replays in my mind like a dreadful slideshow. A chain-reaction of events, beginning with Hayden's disgruntled signature across a meaningless contract, culminating on that fateful day he handed me a flash drive, beaming a smile, despite knowing the device would incinerate my world to ashes and—

The door swings open, ever-so slowly on its hinges, and what I see stops my heart completely.

In the middle of the studio, perched on a colossal easel amid a sea of canvases, rests a half-completed portrait of a woman. Frozen in the doorway, I squint in disbelief, because... gosh, that can't be right. That woman... she sure looks like me.

I approach on languid steps, unblinking, as I hold my breath and admire the canvas that towers over all the others around it. Where vibrant paint doesn't shine, pencil lightly sketches the rest of the masterpiece, immortalizing a moment in time left in the past.

His pool party.

A lump forms in my throat. Has he been working on this for that long?

It appears so. The delicacy of those strokes, bringing my appearance that day to life, sparing no detail—that doesn't happen overnight. He really didn't miss anything. It's like he snapped a photo of me with his mind for reference.

The fishnet cover-up, flaring at the sleeves, drapes over my body with its meticulous square cutouts, all atop my exact red bikini, down to the little ties dangling off my hips. The curious thing, though, for a man like Hayden? He opted for an almost blurred effect, softly obscuring my midriff, as if not wanting to draw attention away from what appears to be the painting's focal point— my face.

And God, it's so detailed. Although only half complete and split vertically down the center, it's like staring into a mirror that day. Wispy bangs. Hoop earrings. Hair looped through an elastic, positioned high on my head. He even remembered my lip shade and how I swapped my glasses for contacts.

Wow...

Enchanted by wonder, I inch closer, daring to brush a finger against my eye and its distinct shade of green, half expecting to feel the silkiness of my lashes instead of dried paint.

I cover my lips and stare, hands trembling and knees locking me into place, as my emotions catch the wind in my throat. Why would he...? A sad shudder rattles me to the bone at the thought of how very wrong I've been about DreamScape and the hell I've put Hayden through. All I've done is point blame his way. If he really is the monster my mind's deemed him to be these past days, then why would this be here?

"It's for your birthday."

Whirling around, I find Hayden leaning against the doorframe, appraising me with a soft expression—just like last night. Unable to suppress my emotions, I sniffle a wet sound and clear my throat, doing little for its rawness.

"My birthday isn't for five months."

He pushes off the doorframe, closing the distance between us on leisure steps. "I'm taking my time with it."

I look up at the skylight, blinking furiously. "Why...? Why would you...?" I falter, already knowing the truth before he speaks.

He pinches my chin gently, tilting it up until I meet his gaze, causing a tear to spill over and skate down my cheek, another slipping in its wake as he murmurs, "Because I love you, Juliana."

Drawing in a quivering breath, my eyes flick between his, basking in their proximity, as those three beautiful words recite in my mind, each rendition bringing more tears. Get it together. I sniffle, definitely looking like a blubbering wreck.

Cupping my jaw, he catches a tear with his thumb. "Gosh, Jules, I didn't mean to bring on the waterworks. Who knew I had such emotional depth?"

I bite my lip on a wide, toothy smile, a giggle clattering through me. That's the best part about Hayden. He always knows how to make everything better.

He swipes more tears, until the well is all dried up. Nerves jitter within me as I gaze up at him, speechless, a response right on the tip of my tongue, like an anxious jumper on a diving board, because... barring family, no one's ever told me they loved me before and I've never uttered the words myself.

But of course, his mind's in tune with mine.

"You don't have to say it back. I'll be here either way."

But that's just it. I'd be here either way. Before DreamScape, I knew that after our arrangement ended, someway, somehow, my heart would wander back here, to this very penthouse, standing outside his bedroom door, longing to be inside. Not on account of these past few months, but because of the past fifteen years.

Looking into his oceany depths, I gently brush a hair off his brow, as if I know I'll be doing it for a lifetime. "How could I not say it back...? Hayden, I've loved you since we were children."

He stumbles back, just a step, eyes bulging like I physically struck him. "Y-you... You have?" he croaks.

"Yes," I whisper, hearing my soul sing. "I've known since that day we drove from your family's estate for the last time, and I prayed I would see you again."

His palms cup my cheeks, applying just enough pressure to make them tingle. "Oh, Juliana..." He blinks, rapidly, looking to the sky, higher than I did moments ago. "That's just... that's—" In a flash, he pulls me into a hug, his arms wrapping securely around my neck.

My cheek squishes into his strong chest for a second, then two, three... until his body shakes against mine, trembling with emotions, igniting mine all over again, but for different reasons. Guilt.

"I'm sorry." His shirt fabric muffles my voice before he eases up. I catch his gaze staring down at me. "I'm so sorry." My chin wobbles. "I shouldn't have..."

"I know— shhhh." He brushes my hair, soothing my worry. "I know, baby."

I blush, despite everything. "I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions after what happened. I could've at least given you the benefit of the doubt and let you explain. And last night..." I choke up, shame taking its hold on me. "I was awful."

He shrugs—actually shrugs. "You could say you were passionate."

"I'm serious."

"Oh, I know you are, and I can't wait to imagine alllll the ways you'll make it up to me." My lips part as a shiver bolts up my spine, causing him to chuckle. "But really, Juliana, you didn't call me anything worse than I've heard before. I knew what I was signing up for when I pulled up to that party last night. You were drunker than a skunk."

My nose scrunches. "Bet I smelled like one, too."

When he doesn't respond, I whack him on the arm playfully.

"Owwwww," he drawls, clutching his bicep like I slugged him with a bat, jaw dropping in shock. "You just love roughing me up, don't you? First, you light my ass up with that vicious tongue, now you're going after my good looks? The audacity..."

I hardly touched him!

"Ohh my—" I roll my eyes to the back of my head, my hand absentmindedly winding up for another—

"See!" He jerks away, pointing.

I gasp and snatch my hand back, watching as a huge smile spreads across his lips. When he laughs, I can't help but join, which only encourages him more, until our laughter bellows through the studio, echoing to the farthest reaches of the penthouse. Gradually, our hysterics soften, leaving only lingering chuckles that slowly fade into silence—a comfortable silence.

Until my reality trickles back in.

I look at my feet. "Your father acted alone, didn't he...? Tricked you into slipping me that flash drive..."

"Yes."

Fuck. I clench my fists.

"Then there really is no hope. My game's lost."

He lifts my chin, anguish swarming his features. "Don't say that."

"Why?" I cringe at how broken I sound. "It's the truth. What hope is there for me, against someone like him? With his type of power and connections? Not to mention, I can't contend with whatever team of lawyers work for your family's company."

When doubt flickers in his otherwise strong gaze, I know team wasn't the right choice of word. Army is more fitting.

Tugging me closer than ever, he sighs softly, bringing his warm lips to my temple. "Don't worry, baby. I'll make this right."