But that wasn’t the best part.
The best part came afterward.
A quiet apartment.
Two glasses of champagne.
No revenge.
No performance.
Just two people realizing they had survived the same kind of heartbreak.
Mason once told me I wasn’t the kind of woman a successful man would want beside him.
I spent years remembering that sentence.
Now, when Julian looks at me, I barely remember why it ever mattered.
Maybe our relationship lasts forever.
Maybe it doesn’t.
I’m not interested in making dramatic promises anymore.
But yesterday morning, I woke up to Julian burning pancakes in my kitchen.
He was barefoot, wearing one of my old college T-shirts, swearing at a smoke detector while trying to convince me breakfast was “supposed to look like that.”
And I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
There was nothing glamorous about it.
Nothing impressive.
Nobody was watching.
