AT MY STEPSISTER’S 500-GUEST WEDDING, THE FAMILY WHO THREW ME OUT AT 16 LEFT ME STANDING IN THE BACK LIKE I DIDN’T EXIST—UNTIL THE BRIDE SLAPPED ME AND CALLED ME GARBAGE WHILE PEOPLE LAUGHED. I DIDN’T FIGHT BACK. I JUST STOOD THERE… LETTING HER THINK I WAS STILL THAT HELPLESS GIRL. THEN HER FIANCÉ STEPPED IN, STARED AT ME, AND ASKED ONE QUESTION THAT SILENCED THE ROOM: “DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO SHE IS?”

Julian glanced back toward the ballroom. “It’s over.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That was fast.”

He let out a humorless breath. “It was over the second she hit you. It just took everyone else a few minutes to catch up.”

My father said nothing.

Julian looked at him then, not rudely, but with the careful distance one reserves for men who have already failed a moral test you no longer need them to retake aloud.

“If you’ll excuse us,” he said.

My father stiffened.

Then, because for once the room—or in this case the terrace—did not belong to him, he nodded and stepped back toward the door.

He paused once before going inside. “Aar.”

I did not answer.

He went in anyway.

Julian waited until the door closed before speaking again.

“I should have recognized you sooner.”

“You did eventually.”

“After she slapped you.”

“Yes.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. “I saw your name on the seating chart yesterday and thought I must be mistaken. Bianca said she had an estranged stepsister. She didn’t use your surname.”

Of course she hadn’t.

“Avoiding details was one of her better skills,” I said.

His mouth tightened. “I’m beginning to understand that.”