Page 83 of Love & Notes

The silence that follows is lethal.

Julian continues. “Ellise, this is my father, Alistair.”

Alistair Thorne does not acknowledge the introduction. He doesn’t even look at me nor does he blink. Instead, his eyes remain locked on his son.

“Hello—” I begin.

“Where is the blonde?” Alistair interrupts.

Nancy.

The name lands somewhere between them and sits there. My entire body goes rigid with shock. I don’t know where to look or what to say.

A sharp wave of doubt rushes over me, and I instantly feel like a substitute—something Julian picked up at the last minute to fill a space that was clearly never intended for me but for someone more appropriate to the high-society world that this house represents.

I do not look at Julian; I look at Alistair instead.

This man is a total glacier. For the first time since I have known Julian Thorne, I feel a sharp, sudden ache of pity for him. I can’t imagine growing up in a house with this man.

“I am unsure where the blonde is,” Julian responds, his voice a flat and dangerous monotone. He doesn’t even flinch. “But I am here with Ellise, and it is generally courteous to acknowledge and welcome your guests.”

Alistair doesn’t look offended; he looks amused, which is somehow much worse. He looks at Julian with an expression that feels more calculated than anger, before his eyes slowly slide to me.

“Hello… Ellise Vance,” Alistair says calmly, a patronising smirk playing on his lips before he turns back to Julian. “You’ll play the Debussy right after the welcome speech. Don’t be late for that either.”

Then he’s gone, dissolving into the sea of black ties, silk and expensive gowns without a backward glance. It’s apparent that he owns every room he walks through simply because he bought them all.

I breathe out slowly, only now aware I have been holding my breath.

“Umm —” I start, but I cannot find the appropriate words to describe what just happened.

“I’m sorry. Ignore him, Ellise.” Julian's voice is soft. He doesn’t look away, only at me, his jaw set in a hard, angry line. “Small-man syndrome. He’s a prick.”

He says it with such a casual venom that I realise this isn’t a new observation. This is his entire life.

“Come on.” His voice drops. “Let’s get a drink.”

He guides me away from the grand staircase, steering us directly into the ballroom.

It’s the sheer scale of it that gets me first—vaulted ceilings that catch the light from a dozen chandeliers and throw it back across the polished floor as the crowd moves. Round tables draped in white linen stretch the length of the room, their centerpieces arrangements of lilies and dark roses that must have cost more than my violin. In the far corner, a string quartet is playing Schubert’s, String Quartet No.14 in D minor, the polite background noise for people who are clearly not listening to the beautiful music, which seems like a particular cruelty.

The guests move through the space gracefully. They are entirely comfortable in rooms that look like this. The women in gowns that were designed specifically for them; the men in tuxedos that have been worn to enough of these evenings by now. Champagne is sipped perfectly. Laughter is calculated and measured.

Julian snags two glasses of champagne from a passing server’s tray, and I take the crystal glass in both hands, terrified to drop it. This glass alone probably cost more than my entire outfit.

“Ellise.” Julian sighs, stepping into my personal space. “Look at me.”

I force myself to look up, meeting his dark gaze. “I’m fine, Julian. Really. I… I didn’t expect him to be quite that rude.”

“He’s an expert at it. When he chooses.”

“He really is lovely,” I tease, rolling my eyes.

“I saw your face when he mentioned Nancy. Listen to me. Nancy is exactly the kind of trophy my father wants me to display. She fits his script. Bringing you here…” His eyes soften. “... you’re the only girl that makes me feel alive, Ellise.” He lets out a ragged breath. “It’s the first real choice I have made in years.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Thorne,” I whisper.

“No. I’m not lying—merely stating the truth. Now drink your champagne before I have to go up there and play that Debussy.”