Page 91 of Julian

“I wasn’t aware I owed you updates regarding my personal life.”

Jon laughs loudly while Vanessa continues studying Harper with thinly veiled interest.

“You look incredible, dear,” Vanessa says finally, though the compliment seems carefully engineered rather than sincere. “Who dressed you?”

“Julian arranged for the dress to be delivered this morning. It’s from a local boutique I love.”

Vanessa seems perturbed that rather than wear an expensive label, Harper wears what makes her comfortable.

Jon and Vanessa eventually drift away toward another cluster of billionaires pretending not to compete with each other, and immediately a new couple approaches us.

Harper leans toward me and whispers, “Why do they care what I wear? It’s weird.”

“It’s high society,” I say with a shrug. “Trust me, people will be clamoring to find out about your little boutique.”

“So weird,” she mutters, and I squeeze her hand.

The man is tall and aristocratic in that distinctly European way, balding at his crown with immaculate posture and a face that suggests generations of inherited confidence. Beside him stands his wife, equally elegant in deep emerald silk.

“Julian,” the man says warmly in a thick Italian accent. “Happy New Year, my friend.”

“Count Belladonna,” I reply with a smile as we clasp hands. “Good to see you.”

“And you.” His eyes move briefly to Harper. “Ah. Bellissima.”

The countess smiles approvingly at Harper before turning back to me. “We heard rumors you might not show,” she says. “But New York society enjoys inventing stories.”

“Usually bad ones,” I reply dryly.

They laugh.

The conversation drifts easily after that—Rome, development projects in Milan, the upcoming auction season at Sotheby’s. The count speaks with animated hands while the countess occasionally corrects details with the grace of a woman who has spent decades refining wealthy men publicly.

Outwardly, Harper handles it beautifully.

She smiles when appropriate, responds politely when included, even laughs at one of the count’s dramatic stories about Venetian politics.

But I feel it beside me. The subtle withdrawal, a bit of tension.

By the time the Italians finally excuse themselves toward the bar, Harper looks more uneasy.

“You all right?” I ask quietly.

She gives a small nod too quickly to be convincing. “Yeah.” Finally, she glances down at her drink. “I’m a little awkward here.”

I lean closer so she can hear me over the orchestra beginning another jazz tune across the room. “Why?”

She gives me a look that practically says Are you serious?

“Julian,” she says, “I just got introduced to actual Italian royalty.”

“They’re not actual royalty anymore.”

“That doesn’t help.”

I laugh beneath my breath.

Harper shakes her head and looks out across the glittering room. “Everyone here seems so… aristocratic… like they were born understanding rooms like this.”