At least, I think it’s Juliette.
She looks like a different person.
She steps into the room wearing an outfit I’ve never seen her in, black from head to toe, and she looks good—beautiful, as always—but different. She seems harder. Angrier. I didn’t think I’d like the short hair on her—last night it was a botched, haphazard job—but she must’ve cleaned it up this morning. The cut is a uniform crop throughout. A simple, sleek buzz cut.
She makes it work.
“Good morning,” she says, and her voice is so hollow that, for a moment, I’m stunned. She manages to make those two words sound mean, and it’s so unlike her that it scares me.
“Damn princess,” I say softly. “Is that really you?”
She looks at me for only a second, but it feels more like she looks through me, and something about the cold, poisonous expression in her eyes breaks my heart like nothing else.
I don’t know what happened to my friend.
And then, as if this shit couldn’t get more dramatic, Lena busts through the door like a freaking debutante. She was probably waiting in the wings for the right time to make her entrance. To throw Juliette off her game.
It doesn’t work.
I watch, as if through water, as Juliette meets Lena for the first time. Juliette is stiff and superior, and I’m proud of her for being strong—but I can’t recognize her in the moment.
J isn’t like this.
She’s not cold like this.
I’ve seen her get angry—hell, I’ve seen her lose her mind—but she’s never been cruel. She’s not mean. And it’s not that I think Lena deserves better, because I don’t. I don’t give a shit about Lena. But this—this display—is so out of character for Juliette that it must mean she’s hurting even more than I thought. More than I could’ve imagined. Like the pain has disfigured her.
I would know. I know her.
Warner might murder me if he knew I felt this way, but the truth is, I know Juliette better than anyone. Better than he does.
The math is simple: J and I have been closer, longer.
She and I have been through more shit together. We’ve had more time to talk about real things together. She’s my closest friend.
Castle has been there for me, too, but he’s like a father to me, and I can’t talk to him or anyone else the way I do with Juliette. She’s different. She gets me. I give her a lot of crap for being emotional all the time, but I love how empathetic she is. I love how she feels things so deeply that sometimes even joy manages to wound her. It’s who she is. She’s all heart.
And this—this version of her I’m seeing right now?
It’s bullshit.
I can’t accept it because I know it’s not real. Because I know it means something is wrong.
Suddenly, a swell of angry voices breaks through my reverie.
I look up just in time to realize Lena has said something nasty. Valentina, one of the twins, turns on her, and I force myself to pay closer attention as she says— “I should’ve cut off your ears when I had the chance.”
My eyebrows shoot up my forehead.
I step forward, confused, and glance around the room for a clue, but a strange, uncomfortable tension has reduced everyone to silence.
“Uh, I’m sorry,” I say, clearing my throat. “Am I missing something?”
More silence.
It’s Lena who finally volunteers an explanation, but I already know better than to trust her when she says, “Valentina likes to play pretend.”
Nicolás, the other twin, rounds on her in an instant, furiously firing back in Spanish. Valentina pats her brother on the shoulder. “No,” she says, “you know what? It’s okay. Let her talk. Lena thinks I like to pretend”—she says a word in Spanish—“I won’t be pretending”—more words in Spanish.
Stephan’s mouth drops open in what appears to be shock, but Lena just rolls her eyes, so I have no idea what just happened.
I frown. It’s a frustrating conversation to follow.
But when I glance over at Juliette I realize, with welcome relief, that I’m not the only one feeling this way; J doesn’t understand what they’re talking about, either. Neither does Castle. And just as I think that Warner must be confused, too, he starts talking to Valentina in fluent Spanish.
Suddenly my head is spinning.
“Damn, bro,” I say. “You speak Spanish, too, huh? I’m going to have to get used to this.”
“We all speak many languages,” Nicolás says to me. He still seems a little irritated, but I’m grateful for the explanation. “We have to be able to communi—”