The Intern - Book 2 E-Book

Chain Emily

• Herausgeber: So Romance
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Intern
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 257

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Does Julia really know the man she married? And why does she still have that lingering doubt?

After her honeymoon, Julia returns home glowing. She’s in love, wrapped in days of passion and rediscovery with her new husband. But going back to the hospital brings more than she expected. Whispers follow her through the halls, James seems oddly present in the hospital’s executive offices, her best friend Tara grows distant, and wild rumors about Dean begin to swirl. Julia starts to question everything—her marriage, her friendships, even herself. Did she make the wrong choice on her wedding day? Can she truly trust those around her?

The past resurfaces, threatening to shatter Julia’s fragile balance. When the people you love hide secrets, who can you really believe? Suspense, steamy moments, and shocking twists lie ahead in this thrilling second volume!

WHAT READERS ARE SAYING

I loved seeing the story from other characters’ perspectives in this book. Some secondary characters step into the spotlight, and it was a pleasure discovering more about their lives. – Charlotte-183, Booknode

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily Chain has been writing across genres—from fantasy and thrillers to, of course, romance. She’s drawn to characters readers can truly connect with, like Julia.

Leseprobe

Cover

Title page

Prologue

“Yes, I do.”

James’s response is sharp, quick, and firm.

No doubt about it, he wants to marry me.

My mouth falls slightly open.

I take a breath, and the thread of recent events unravels before me.

Our happy life in Newark, our move to the West Coast.

My struggle to make friends, until I met Tara here in Los Angeles. Our first girls’ nights out, secretly planning my wedding while James worked tirelessly to give us a luxurious apartment and the life that comes with it.

My longing for children every time I passed a toy or stuffed animal shop. Tara’s comforting words when I doubted I could ever have the family I dreamed of, given my future husband’s demanding schedule.

The announcement that shook me, over a year ago now.

Everything moved so fast once I went back to school, initially against James’s wishes. But then, he became my unwavering support, helping me secure a coveted spot at the hospital every intern dreams of in the Los Angeles area.

Despite the odds, I managed to make friends, like Nina, who is here in the audience today. Alone, without her so-called date, who is absent.

That date being none other than Dean. The one responsible for this immense chaos in my mind and the hesitation that now grips me, just as I should be saying “yes” to the man I love.

One year of having him as my supervisor, and here I am questioning years of a relationship.

My silence grows heavy, and I know the moment has come.

I must summon all my courage and answer with my heart, no matter what happens.

PART 1

Chapter 1

JULIA

Los Angeles — August 2020

The brand-new alarm clock, sitting proudly on the recently installed bedside table, reads 8:02 a.m. The shrill ringtone of my phone pulls me from a deep sleep. A few rays of sunlight tease my slightly tanned skin as my voicemail chimes.

The tense tone of the recording, made months ago, has a strange effect on me, like watching an old black-and-white scene:

“This is Julia’s number. Call me back later or leave a message…”

The beep echoes loudly, leaving the caller to decide.

“Ju’, it’s Tara. I was hoping we could meet when you get back. Fifteen days without news... That’s a long time! I’m not blaming you. I just miss you. Call me back”.

I sigh, turning onto my side. My movement inadvertently pulls the goose-down duvet, still smelling of newness, off the bed, and it lands on the floor.

I grumble for a moment before sitting up, uncovered and fully awake.

Chills run over my bare skin, and I blush as memories of the previous nights flood back. My heart ignites instantly as the images play out in my mind.

My full lips meet the tip of my tongue. The faint ridges across them are a lingering taste of the past few days, the past few nights.

The touch of his skin, his kisses so tender, only to grow passionate and fervent.

I never thought him capable of such tenderness mixed with an almost primal intensity. I see in his eyes a depth I’ve never seen before.

At the touch of his skin, I burn with passion. The world stops spinning, existing only under his hands.

The most beautiful part is the effect I have on him. At first, I was surprised to see how much my body affected him. The pearly nightgown I quickly bought at the airport had its intended effect on the very first night. We forgot all about the restaurant and breakfast the next morning.

Our exchanges are a blend of passion and serenity.

My body and heart ignite at the slightest touch of his. His tongue awakens a dormant heat, leaving me lost in his strong arms.

Fifteen days now, and every morning I wake longing to see him walk through the bedroom door with breakfast, only to passionately repeat our nightly activities.

This morning, the low sun tells me he must be out running on the beach, as he’s been doing since we returned.

Seven days in the sun to escape the world. To push through the past months, the recent revelations...

A peace neither of us has had the courage to break by returning to reality.

Tara is first in line for me.

Since the wedding, she’s been bombarding me with messages, worried about my silence. I can’t blame her, but I can’t bring myself to leave this cocoon of love we’ve created.

After a few hesitant sighs, I decide to reply with a quick text.

Hey sweetie. Just got back. You know how unpacking goes... Haven’t had a moment to myself.

I bite my lip at the blatant lie. I’ve been thinking only of myself for two weeks. And she knows it. I shake my head, trying to finish my slightly dishonest message on a better note.

Wanna grab a drink nearby? Say around 2 p.m.? I saw a cute Indian restaurant. Interested?

I hit send, and her reply comes almost instantly. I haven’t even locked my screen when I see:

Perfect, send me the address!

Her eagerness both terrifies and touches me. She plans to grill me thoroughly. I swallow hard as I send her the restaurant’s address.

Once that’s done, I toss the small phone onto the teak dresser in the bedroom and head for the warm, enveloping embrace of the walk-in shower. The bathroom is a dream come true, and I savor every detail, hoping to find a similar apartment in the coming weeks.

Living in a hotel was fun for a while. But I need to regain the kind of habits you can only have at home.

I picture the loft by the sea. A wave of nostalgia washes over me before I pull myself together.

“It’s the best solution for everyone,” I tell myself aloud.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, winking exaggeratedly at the radiant woman I see. My complexion is as glowing as the light in my eyes.

“Come on, girl! Time to face the world and own it!”

I practically shout at myself as I turn on the water.

The first jets are cold, and I step back, still facing the mirror. My mother taught me to build confidence by confronting the harshest gaze one can receive—one’s own.

I have to admit, she was right. I’ve never faced harsher criticism than my own. The most cutting and hurtful remarks have always come from me. And this habit of putting myself down daily, comparing myself to the lawyers circling James, the nurses, doctors, and surgeons at the hospital. To Tara...

The thought of making myself sick over comparisons that never should have existed disgusts me now. Determined to stop belittling myself without valid reason, I step under the stream of hot water.

The warmth enveloping me helps me forget the rest of the world.

I feel every inch of my skin. My thumb glides along my arm, my stomach, my thighs. I shiver under my own touch without daring to go further.

He wants me to learn to find pleasure on my own.

I blush. Just the thought of it intimidates me. Yet, I’m dying to try, just to prove to myself that I can. I tentatively explore this unfamiliar body with my hands.

In nearly thirty years of existence, I’ve learned nothing about myself. I had to understand how men’s bodies worked without ever considering my own.

That’s their job, I used to think during my first relationship. If you don’t enjoy it, it must be a physical mismatch. Like children’s building blocks. The round peg in the round hole, the square in the square... A sort of logic to relationships I thought I understood.

Out of three relationships, I hated the first two. The third was different.

But how can you say which was the best when you’ve only had one good experience?

I lived in a haze, half at peace, deeply resigned, for years.

My index finger taps the water pooling in my navel.

“Until now,” I whisper.

The memory of the last few hours raises my temperature again. The hot water has nothing to do with it.

I laugh under the waves of heat, mixed with a still-surprising desire.

Accompanied by this playful mood, I quickly finish my shower.

Leaving the comforting steam of the hot water is difficult. I’m already shivering when the bedroom door opens. Naked, I step out of the bathroom to greet the one who brings me this sense of well-being.

Chapter 2

TARA

2 p.m.

I’ve been waiting for an hour. She’s blowing me off.

Frustrated, I glance at my phone for the millionth time. A small rectangular device, useful only as a portable clock and for calls. Nothing extraordinary, but enough to stay reachable. At least, with the rest of the world—excluding my best friend.

I try to convince myself she’s fine, that I shouldn’t meddle in her choices or how she handles them... But I’m worried.

The scatterbrained, adventurous dreamer—that’s me. Not her.

Our duo works because of that. She’s steady, stable, and rational, while I bring the raised eyebrows, eye rolls, and little sighs that mixed amusement with exasperation

No way am I letting her make me endure sleepless nights, worrying something’s happened to her.

“Are you gonna be here for a while…?” asks, for the millionth time, the vegetarian model from France I’ve been dragging around for two days.

I don’t know if it’s because my friend isn’t here, but I wanted company. Except I’d banked on the not-so-small chance that Louis would be into men.

At our first meeting, he went on and on about the beauty of their features, so I assumed he had a particular fondness for them. Instead, I quickly realized it was his peculiar and unconvincing flirting technique.

“Louis…”

I stop mid-sentence to think of what to say next. His European accent, his handsome cheeks, and full lips don’t change the fact that I don’t feel like talking to him. My mind is consumed with thoughts of Julia. And even though the usual Tara might be tempted by his doe-eyed French charm, I need to stay strong.

“Want to take a walk on the beach, maybe grab an ice cream?”

I feel like I’m talking to a child. Judging by the agency that hired me to keep him company, I’m not far off.

Handsome and professional, yes. A compass in his head, absolutely not.

From his panicked look, I can tell he doubts his ability to find his way as much as I do.

“Look, you can see the beach over there.”

I stretch out my arm, pointing to the golden glint of the sand. He squints before standing up. The way he fixes his destination worries me about his ability to cross streets. He doesn’t seem inclined to take his eyes off that point.

Trying to relax a bit, I don’t watch him walk away for long, preferring to set my plan in motion. If Julia won’t spill all the details I want, I’ll have to get clever.

For two weeks, he’s been coaching me in secret, hoping to learn more about the situation. I tried telling him to call her, but no way. He’s too stubborn for that. Too scared, too. I get it.

After everything that’s happened, the revelations and Julia’s silence, I’m not sure where I stand anymore.

Who’s in the wrong, who’s in the right?

Without my friend’s side of the story, I can’t decide. I need to know what she thinks about all this. Maybe she knows things I don’t?

I’m pondering this point again when I see her tall figure appear in the distance. Foolishly, I imagined her thinner, defeated, or unhappy.

On the contrary, the woman I see is radiant. Far happier than usual. Happier than before.

I twitch my nose from side to side, a nervous tic I have when stress creeps in.

Knowing how well my friend knows me, I try to calm my agitation. One hand near my face, the other flat on the round table in front of me, I appear completely natural. Like a model on social media. Relaxed and spontaneous.

I laugh at my silliness, regaining a normal composure. No matter if I’m anxious, Julia needs to know how much I’ve worried. My wrist falls limply next to the other as I straighten up to greet her. She opens her arms wide, and I dive into them.

I’ve never had a female friend before her. The chats, the confidences, and other little nuances of our gender never seemed as important as they have these past two weeks.

It’s always the same: when you have something, you don’t realize its value. The moment it’s taken away, you understand that nothing is ever truly guaranteed. And that it’s worth so much more.

I linger in her arms for a moment before being flooded with a barrage of questions. I see him again, sitting in my living room, bombarding me with questions just two days after the wedding.

Questions I couldn’t answer. Julia hadn’t warned me of her intentions. I had no idea. And if I can’t get answers, I won’t be the only one frustrated.

“How are you? You look... radiant!”

My observation couldn’t be more accurate. The smile lighting up her face perfectly matches the mischievous glint in her eyes.

If I didn’t know the situation, I’d be jealous of her.

But I’m someone who avoids complications. And Julia’s life is anything but simple right now.

She takes her time answering, sitting down at our table. As usual, I’ve chosen a spot on the terrace. Even though the sun isn’t exactly kind to my fair, freckled skin, I like to brighten our meetings.

“You’re looking very stylish,” she praises me.

I glance distractedly at what I’m wearing. In two days, Louis has made it his mission to give me a “look.” Goodbye colorful, loose clothing; hello uncomfortable, tight fabrics. Instead of resembling a tempting candy, I look like a mermaid in need of some sparkle.

“Louis decided to give me a “style.” Nothing groundbreaking.”

I say it without much thought and regret it instantly. Julia smiles broadly before launching into what should have been my line.

“Really? A man! Tell me everything. If you’re letting him style you, he must really mean something to you.”

She’s enthusiastic, almost too much so. Her tone borders on gleeful hysteria, like I’ve been countless times over my one-night stands or her little hospital confidences.

Watching her, I realize what’s bothering me. Her more colorful, casual outfit, her wavy hair, her cheerful demeanor.

She looks like me. The “me” from two weeks ago. The one who thrived on spontaneity and thrills.

“Don’t be shy, spill it!” she insists, seemingly more interested in Louis than she should be.

I furrow my brow, analyzing this unusual situation. Normally, she listens with a bored expression, and I have to ask what’s wrong.

She tells me her troubles, and we spend the rest of the time dissecting the solutions available to her.

But now, she’s relentless with her questions. As if she doesn’t want me to ask any.

Oh no.

Her strategy finally dawns on me. She always said James used to say: the best way to avoid being interrogated is to ask the first question.

I’m left speechless at how she’s steering the conversation. Usually, she just goes along with my easygoing chat.

So this is where I stand? She’s already pulling out the big guns, bringing up my Plan C. Sweeping aside hours of thought and preparation with a single move. I haven’t even launched my first two attacks, and she’s already countered.

He was right. She’s changing.

This reality frightens me as I vaguely recount Louis, my daily life... I leave him out.

Once my spiel is over, I find an excuse to escape this trap. There’s no way to learn anything; she anticipated my questions.

Annoyed, I walk down the street leading to the beach without looking back. The Julia sitting at that terrace doesn’t interest me.

“Popcorn!” Louis exclaims when he sees me.

I watch him run over, a box of popped kernels in hand. Before my feet touch the warm sand, I glance to the left. I’d almost forgotten him. Sitting in his SUV, he’s watching me. I don’t have the heart to go over. Or to say anything to him.

Instead, I shake my head from side to side, signaling that the situation doesn’t look good.

He doesn’t wait long before starting the engine and driving off. I imagine the look of defeat on his face. Probably a version of mine, only more desperate…

“You okay, Cactus?”

I roll my eyes before playfully punching his arm. Little Cactus. That’s the nickname he gave me last night.

After a rather enlightening and hilarious conversation about body hair. Like a true 21st-century man, he struggled to understand my choice not to shave. It’s true, how can one grasp the idea that a woman might not want to suffer just to be slightly more appealing to men?

“But you have to suffer to be beautiful, right?” he naively said.

Without being harsh, I asked him to name one painful thing men do to please women.

Very earnestly, he searched. Made lists... Only to admit defeat, a bit crestfallen. He brought up shaving as an argument, emphasizing that many men shave their beards.

To that, I replied that plenty of them, on the contrary, grow out their facial hair. Sometimes to impressive lengths.

I can’t imagine what my words brought to his mind, but it ended the debate. As a result of my victory, he gave me the nickname “Cactus.” Honestly, I don’t mind the little name.

I smile at him, my mind still a bit elsewhere, when he suggests a race to the water. I decide to set aside the reasonable side of my personality and let carefree Tara take over for a moment. I dash across the hot sand as he searches for a spot to set down his box. Those decisive minutes allow me to reach the water first, with pride shining on my face.

Chapter 3

JULIA

The sun warms my skin as I order a cool, non-alcoholic drink. Starting the day with liquor is never a good idea, especially after such a bizarre meeting. I could feel Tara’s judgment radiating. Has she spoken to him in the past few days?

The thought bothers me, even though their friendship isn’t new.

Do I have the right to demand my friend to stop seeing him, just because I’ve made that decision for myself? No. I know better.

Still, I’m proud of myself for surviving that encounter. As I suspected, she expected to find me broken, wounded, or riddled with doubt. Seeing the opposite didn’t seem to please her much. That stings more than it should. Don’t we wish happiness for our friends above all else?

The waiter sets down the cool drink I ordered. As the glass meets the small round table, my phone vibrates.

The screen lights up in front of the waiter, who respectfully averts his gaze. I pay the bill and thank him.

Once alone, I pull the little device toward me.

The notification on the screen makes me sigh.

Three new messages.

The first is from my mother, who has been pestering me almost as persistently as Tara. I send her a vague reply, ­apologizing for my lack of communication over the past few weeks. What more can I really say that she doesn’t already know?

Of course, I haven’t told her everything. Some details are none of her business. But she knows part of the story—the part everyone saw at the wedding.

I wince thinking about it. I never imagined my wedding day would turn out like that. Even though it wasn’t a fairy tale on paper, nothing could have prepared me for so much drama and tears in such a short span of time.

I shake my head to banish the images and return to the present.

“No regrets,” I whisper to myself. “You’re happy and fulfilled, and that’s what matters. Who cares what they think?”

With that encouraging and uplifting thought, I quickly finish my drink. Not wanting to linger unnecessarily, I left the restaurant without ordering any food. Judging by Tara’s haste to leave our table earlier, I doubt I’ll see her again anytime soon.

With my stomach growling, I decide to grab a quick bite from a street corner vendor before heading back to the hotel.

Lost in thought, I forget about the two other missed calls.

It’s only when I’m placing my order at a kiosk, standing next to a man glued to his phone, that I remember the other notifications.

I unlock my phone and see the name of the real estate agent. I bring the device to my ear to listen to the voicemail.

“Hello, Gina Stone. Could you call me back today? We’re missing your signature on one of the documents. I asked James to pass it along to you, but he suggested I contact you directly—something about schedules and efficiency. Thank you again for choosing my services. Talk soon.”

The exasperated look on my face is a mix of annoyance and frustration. The overly familiar way she refers to James, as if he’s a friend rather than a client, combined with her knack for always finding yet another document for me to sign despite the mountain of paperwork I’ve already done, are the two most irritating aspects of my recent weeks.

“Paperwork, paperwork,” I grumble as the message ends.

You’ve chosen to call this contact back. Dialing now.

My eyes widen in disbelief at the phone’s interpretation of my muttering. The line is already ringing before I realize it’s calling her without my consent. I don’t have time to hang up before her overly cheerful voice answers.

“What a pleasure to hear from you!” she exclaims, her enthusiasm too exaggerated to be genuine. “Did you get my message?”

I reply with a flat “yes,” while she launches into her spiel. Whether it’s a professional habit or just her personality, Gina never stops talking. Once she gets going, interrupting her is nearly impossible.

“Could you come by the office? Or should I come to you? Where are you? It’ll only take a few minutes. I have a slot until 1:15 PM.”

Realizing it’s probably close to the time she mentioned, I give her the address of the fast-food place where I’m currently standing.

“Perfect. Could we meet on the esplanade? There’s a lovely café across from the beach, and I can update you on the latest developments.”

I agree, just as a young cook, wearing a transparent cap over his hair, signals that my order is ready. With the phone still pressed to my ear, I grab my food and step outside.

Gina assures me she’ll be there shortly.

Knowing her punctuality, I pick up my pace.

Normally, eating food from one place while sitting in another would make me uncomfortable. But today, after a peaceful morning and successfully navigating my meeting with Tara, my only priority is silencing my growling stomach.

I take a bite of my burger the moment I sit down on the metal chair of the café’s terrace.

A waiter approaches as I struggle to chew the mix of meat, bread, and vegetables.

“Would you like to order something?”

His tone drips with disapproval at my behavior. I give him a neutral smile and gesture toward the drink menu, signaling that I haven’t decided yet. Covering my mouth, I finish my bite while watching him walk away.

With one hand, I grab the menu.

The drink options are plentiful, and several catch my eye.

I hesitate before settling on a small alcoholic pick-me-up.

“So much for a healthy, sensible lifestyle,” I say, abandoning my resolution to avoid daytime drinking.

I need this to survive the whirlwind that is Gina. The spiel she’s about to unleash—James probably didn’t have to endure it. He’s so lucky to have women buzzing around him like bees to honey.

Meanwhile, women circle me, waiting for the slightest slip-up to swoop in and steal him away. It’s a tiresome routine.

I’ve barely finished my sandwich when a striking silhouette appears on the horizon.

Gina is the opposite of the stereotypical Canadian. Tall and olive-skinned, she has jet-black, curly hair that cascades down to the middle of her back. Her toned, slender legs, a testament to hours at the gym, make her walk with incredible confidence.

Watching her, I feel like I’m in a TV show, where the entrance is filmed in slow motion. The only detail that matters is the man trailing behind her.

About six feet tall. Fairly attractive, at first glance. From a distance, he seems slight, almost boyish. That impression only grows stronger as his features come into focus.

What is this fresh-faced college grad doing with Gina?

“You look radiant,” my real estate agent gushes.

Her surprise might have stung if I hadn’t already played this hypocritical game a million times with the women in James’s orbit.

The only comfort is knowing she’ll be the last.

Chapter 4

TARA

The closed shutters of my apartment keep it cool inside. My forehead, damp with sweat despite the quick swim earlier, convinces me to take a shower. Louis’s work meeting is supposed to last four hours, so I have plenty of time to pamper myself.

Kicking off my sandals with relief in the entryway, I hop over to the fridge to grab a cold drink.

Cucumber and ginger.

I read the hastily scrawled label in my own handwriting. I wrinkle my nose, hesitating. I went through a phase of natural remedies and miracle cures for glowing skin and a silky voice. It wasn’t a total failure—I don’t look like a monster—but I haven’t exactly achieved the voice of an opera diva or the beauty of a supermodel.

Setting aside my detox concoction for a guilt-free day, I grab a bottle of apple juice.

“At least it’s organic,” I say with a half-smile.

The voice of my yoga instructor, a staunch advocate of natural recipes, echoes in my mind.

“To achieve perfect balance, you must eat and drink what your spirit needs,” she told me in our last class.

I pause for a moment, searching my subconscious for its vital, urgent craving. Unsurprisingly, Julia’s name surfaces.

“So the answer to my problems is to drink my friend’s blood,” I joke.

Though my tone is light, a knot of anxiety forms in my chest. I take a sip to wash away the bitter taste of this morning’s failure. I fancied myself a great detective, but maybe it’s time to stop idolizing Robert Downey Jr. as a crime-solving genius in London’s streets.

The new hardwood floors of my loft creak under my steps as I head to the bathroom. Neon colors and patterned towels decorate the space I like the least.

Since my trip to Cuba, where fresh water isn’t a plentiful resource and locals use it sparingly, I’ve viewed my shower differently.

Of course, I love standing under hot water and relaxing. But the faces of people lacking clean water stay with me, casting a shadow over the whole experience. According to a speaker I had the chance to hear near Los Angeles two weeks ago, everyone should have such experiences to open their minds and appreciate the privileges we have here in this country.

Though I could use a shower, I hesitate.

Without thinking, I glance around to make sure no one is watching—impossible, since I’m alone in the apartment—and sniff my underarms.

There’s barely any odor, proof that my body isn’t drenched in sweat.

My hair is shiny, without a hint of grease.

Sebum won’t be an issue either.

After careful consideration, I decide to use just a washcloth to freshen up. The process is quick, and I don’t have to feel guilty about wasting water.

Pleased with my eco-friendly choice, I leave the bathroom with a smile on my face. It doesn’t take much to feel good.

Still unsure how to spend the rest of my time, I open my laptop on the small desk—a plank resting on two sawhorses in the corner—and check my emails.

HOSTING A BLIND MODEL

The email subject catches my attention. I’ve been hosting foreign professionals for four months now. It’s a job that suits me—spontaneous, attentive, and responsive, with no long-term commitments. A dream job that I genuinely enjoy. The agency that connects me with clients isn’t exactly what you’d call personal. It’s impersonal, almost robotic, often frustrating me with its lack of detailed information. Still, I haven’t been short of contracts since I started. The people who come through my door are as varied as they are unique.

I open the email to see what it’s about. This person seems to be fairly well-known in their field and wants, I quote, “a pleasant and discreet stay in L.A.”

I make a face. Discretion isn’t exactly my strong suit. The agency sent me this client because their arrival coincides with Louis’s departure.

I hesitate before drafting a reply.

I’d be delighted to host this individual, who will find in me the perfect guide for a stay tailored to their desires.

I tilt my head from side to side, searching for a better phrasing. “Guide” feels too much like “guide dog,” and I wouldn’t want to offend them before we’ve even started discussing their needs.

Less pompous and more genuine… Let’s try this…Talking to myself works. I type out a new version, this time closer to the truth.

The timing works perfectly with my hosting schedule. I’m ready to welcome them and accommodate their specific needs, as I do with all my clients.

I’m satisfied with my professional tone and hit send.

No sooner have I sent the email than the doorbell rings. I quickly get up and rush to greet my visitor.

Standing on the threshold, unsurprisingly, is my charming new friend, his face drawn and eyes red.

If I didn’t know the whole story, I’d have a hard time imagining Dean, teary-eyed, standing at my door.

Chapter 5

JULIA

Bahamas — 2 weeks earlier

I push open the hotel room door, my eyes red and swollen. A soft, dim light greets me, but I barely notice it.

The journey and the day have left me utterly drained. The only thought in my mind is to collapse onto the bed and let the reality of my situation sink in by dawn.

Welcome to the happy newlyweds.