Chapter 8

[ 1,149 words ]

Julian’s POV

The drive back home was nothing short of torture. Every stoplight, every slow turn down the winding roads leading to the Windsor estate, felt like it was dragging me closer to a funeral I didn’t want to attend. Not an actual one, no. This was the death of the only thing in my life that had ever felt spontaneous and real.

The Las Vegas wife.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter as the thought surfaced again. The marriage certificate in my office drawer, one I’d kept sealed in a folder marked “Private”—only had two names on it: Jules and Kat.

No surname. No address. No contact information. Just “Kat p>

The fuck is Kat?

That’s all she gave me, and oh, she didn’t give it to me; I only found out about that name while looking at the marriage certificate. That’s all I had after six years of searching. A name scribbled in hurried ink, a memory buried beneath the haze of one too many shots and a chopper ride that ended with blood on the seats and her skin on mine. It was reckless and fucking senseless. Yet, it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

But now it was time to let it go. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself as the wrought-iron gates to the estate opened automatically at my approach. The Windsor mansion stood like a monument to tradition—clean lines, grey stone, perfect symmetry. Regal. Cold. Just like the legacy I’d been born into.

I parked beside the garden and sat there for a moment, staring at the dashboard, my jaw clenching and unclenching. Then I exhaled, stepped out, and walked toward the kitchen entrance, where the smell of sugar and warm butter wafted into the driveway like bait.

Grandma was baking.

The kitchen was bathed in soft yellow light, the kind that made everything feel a little warmer than it was. My grandmother stood at the center island, her sleeves rolled up, hands dusted in flour, stirring a bowl like she was crafting something far more important than cookies. She glanced up and smiled the moment she saw me.

“There you are,” she said, as if I’d just come home from school and not spent the last decade managing every Windsor acquisition from New York to Tokyo.

She pulled me into a hug, and I let her. She smelled like lavender and honey, like patience and peace. The only person in the world who could make me feel twelve again just by wrapping her arms around me.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” she said as she pulled back, eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe you had plans with your model friend p>

There it was. That subtle nudge of disapproval wrapped in sweetness.

I didn’t answer. She knew damn well I never talked about my love life. Especially not with her.

Across the counter, Gail, my little sister gave me a sympathetic glance but said nothing. She knew better.

Grandma smiled again and resumed mixing her dough. “Windsor,” she said without looking at me, “you know that model girl has to go p>

I stiffened.

“You’re having me followed?” I asked, more out of reflex than genuine curiosity.

She shook her head. “Of course not p>

Liar. The woman probably had more surveillance than the CIA. She didn’t just want to know what I was doing; she wanted to know why. She wanted to know who I was becoming when I wasn’t under her roof.

I folded my arms and leaned against the kitchen island. “Actually, I came here to talk. Privately p>

Her movements paused for only a second before she wiped her hands on a cloth and untied her apron. “Gail, keep an eye on the oven p>

“Already on it,” Gail said softly.

Grandma led the way to the sunroom, her steps firm and unhurried, as if she already had a sense of what was coming but was gracious enough to let me say it on my own.

We sat facing each other, light spilling across the hardwood floors. I watched her settle into the armchair, her posture regal, her expression unreadable.

She didn’t speak first. She never did.

I leaned back and crossed one ankle over my knee. “Which one do you want first—good news or bad p>

Her eyebrows lifted. “Let’s get the bad out of the way p>

I exhaled. “I lost the family ring.” Her eyes didn’t flinch or narrow. She just watched me. “I’m sorry,” I added. “I think it’s either in my office or in one of the cars. I’ve searched everywhere, but I can’t find it p>

For a few seconds, she was quiet. Then she leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap.

“Well,” she said, “if anyone tries to sell it, I’ll get a call. Even if it’s on the other side of the world.” I blinked. “No one’s called,” she continued. “Which means the ring is safe. And if it’s safe, that means it’s somewhere in your room or in your many cars p>

So my ghost of a wife had kept it.

I rubbed the back of my neck. The silence stretched between us, filled with things I wasn’t ready to say. Things like maybe she kept the ring because she still sees herself as my wife. Things like, why the hell isn’t she looking for me? Six years is too long to stay gone. Too long not to care. Unless she didn’t.

Grandma’s voice broke through my thoughts. “And the good news p>

I met her gaze. “I’m ready to marry the Kensington girl p>

Her eyes lit up—not with surprise, but with vindication. Like this was the ending she’d been waiting for all along. She stood without a word and headed toward the phone mounted on the wall.

“I’ll make the call.” She said, and then left.

I stayed in the sunroom, staring out at the garden beyond the glass. Somewhere out there, a woman had my ring. A woman I married and couldn’t remember. A ghost with my name on her finger.

And she never came looking. Six years. Not a call. Not a knock. Not a single word.

I didn’t even know her full name.

I closed my eyes for a second, just long enough to picture what I couldn’t remember her voice in the dark, her fingers gripping my shirt, her breath on my throat. Blood on the sheets. Her laugh. That’s all I had. But it wasn’t nothing. I stood slowly, jaw tight, heart heavier than I liked to admit.

As I stepped out into the crisp evening air, I realized something. The ring wasn’t lost. It had simply chosen a hand. And wherever she was, she hadn’t taken it off.

Maybe that meant something. Or maybe it meant nothing at all.

But I knew this much: if I ever found her—whoever Kat really was—I wasn’t letting her go again.

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