Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” I answer. “Guess so.”
He studies me for a beat—too long to be casual. “Where are you headed?”
I almost laugh. “Nowhere, really.”
The word hangs there, ugly and honest.
Julian’s gaze changes just slightly. He glances at his watch, then back at me. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
I consider that and wonder how I’ve gone most of the day without even realizing that. “Shouldn’t there be the parade going then?”
“That ended hours ago.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Are you spending Thanksgiving alone?”
I shrug, because that’s easier than saying yes. “No family here. The family I do have is Canadian. Different Thanksgiving.”
That should be enough. It’s always been enough for everyone else but not for Julian Langley.
“You’re a New York Viper,” Julian says, voice calm but carrying steel underneath it. “You’re not going to spend Thanksgiving wandering Manhattan like you’ve got nowhere to belong.”
The woman beside him tilts her head, curious now. Julian notices and gestures lightly. “Svetlana,” he says. “My companion.”
She offers a polite smile, gaze sweeping over me with interest that feels measured, not judgmental.
“We’re heading back to my townhome,” Julian continues. “There will be a proper Thanksgiving meal. Afternoon feast. Full table.”
My instinct is to decline—to keep moving, keep walking until my legs give out and my thoughts finally win. But part of me is fascinated that this man is celebrating Thanksgiving with a woman I bet he hardly knows, and that honestly makes me feel a little sad for him.
Julian watches me, waiting. “You’ll come,” he says.
Not Would you like to.
Not You’re welcome if.
You’ll come.
I’m not the type to ask for help. I open my mouth to argue. To say I’m fine. That I don’t need charity.
But the truth is brutal and undeniable. I have nowhere else to go and I need something to distract me from the emptiness swallowing me whole.
Julian steps slightly closer, his voice lower now—not softer, but clearer. “You don’t get to be alone today, Grizz. Not on my watch.”
I nod once, the movement heavy. “All right,” I say.
And just like that, the night I thought would swallow me whole is rerouted—dragged, against my will, toward a table I never expected to sit at, carrying a weight I didn’t know anyone else could see.
I walk beside Julian and Svetlana, grateful they’re carrying the conversation and sparing me the effort. When we reach his building, Julian gestures up and says, “Best address in Manhattan.”
And it is. His townhome is stunning, rendering me speechless just like it did the night of the casino fundraiser. I remember being distracted then by noise and people and the press of bodies. Tonight, with the space mostly empty, the scale is almost overwhelming.
Not just width or height, but volume too.
“Not sure if you realized it when you were here last time, but it’s a total of five floors,” Julian says as we step inside. “Six, if you count the roof, which I’m redoing this summer.”
I slow without meaning to, the same way I did the first time, because it’s impossible not to. Back then, I clocked the size and moved on. Now, it’s the light—and the intentional absence of it—that grabs me.
The main room is massive—a combination great room, dining room, and music space—wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass. The city unfolds beyond it in darkness. Central Park lies somewhere to the north, invisible now but unmistakable even unseen, its vast absence a reminder that daybreak up here must be nothing short of soul-stealing. To the south, Manhattan glows in layered density, towers lit like constellations stacked on top of one another.
I didn’t pay attention to that the last time I was here because I was spending all my time looking at Daisy.
“Welcome back, sir,” a man says, stepping into the foyer. He’s tall, probably early sixties and if his crisp British accent didn’t give it away, his formal suit and polished air did.
This must be the proverbial butler.
“Hi, Percy,” Julian says warmly. “Mr. McAvoy will be joining us for Thanksgiving dinner.”
Percy gives a slight bow of acknowledgment. “I shall instruct the staff to add another place setting.”
Julian leads us toward the dining area, which anchors the room in a way that feels deliberate rather than decorative. The table is long and oval, seating for twenty, crafted from pale stone with a smooth, matte finish that reflects the ambient light without shining. Its base is sculptural and solid—brushed metal in a warm champagne tone that gives the piece weight without heaviness.
Suspended above it, multiple pendant lights hang at staggered heights, each formed of clustered, gold-toned leaves or petals that catch the glow along their edges. Beyond that, a massive fireplace crackles, flames licking upward in deep orange and yellow.
“Sit,” Julian gestures to a chair, and then helps Svetlana into one. “Let’s eat while it’s hot.”
The meal borders on obscene. The turkey is carved and re-carved, slices fanned across the platter, almost ceremonial in nature. The skin crackles under the knife, bronze and lacquered, and the meat underneath is so tender it barely resists. Stuffing spills out in rich, fragrant mounds—dense with sausage, onions cooked down until sweet, herbs like sage and thyme. Butter glistens everywhere. The gravy is dark and glossy, pooling thick and perfect over mashed potatoes whipped so smooth they barely hold shape.