Chapter 6

My second week in São Paulo.

Patricia Hartley rang on an international call — making a point of it.

"Sophie, darling, I have to thank you. Julian tells me that if it weren't for you pushing them together, he and Celia might never have got there."

She sent a few photos: Julian and Celia at a casual bistro with a group of new friends, grinning at the camera.

I'd always assumed that watching my worst nightmare become real would hit me like a wall.

It didn't.

I enlarged the photo and studied their faces.

And then it arrived — the clarity I'd been waiting for: I'd completely run out of love for Julian Hartley.

What I didn't expect was to run into them both, three months later, in Rio de Janeiro.

I was there as a corporate sponsor's representative, accompanying our R&D team to an academic conference. I kept reading the name on the conference banner — long, familiar — until it finally clicked.

That was the conference. The one that had accepted Julian and Celia's undergraduate paper ahead of schedule.

Which meant they were here to present.

When Julian spotted me from across the lobby, he flinched — sent a stack of papers scattering across the floor. Flustered, he crouched to gather them and, in the confusion, said something to a passing hotel employee in English rather than Portuguese.

After Julian headed to the registration desk, Celia crossed the room.

The pleasantness was gone.

"Sophie." Her voice was light, almost amused. "You really don't quit, do you? Chasing him all the way here — have some self-respect. You don't belong at a conference like this. You could never be his equal. Only I belong at his side."

I let her finish.

"Celia," I said, "I think you've got something backwards."

"The only reason you got to be with Julian is because I didn't want him anymore."

"You like picking up what others leave behind. That's fine. Go ahead."

I reached into my bag and pulled out my conference lanyard, looping it around my neck.

"Whether I belong here isn't really your call." I offered her a pleasant smile. "But whether you get to walk into that hall today — I can make that decision for you."

After all, Hartwell Global was the conference's lead sponsor.

It's funny what you can do when you control the money in the room.

The conference ended. Passing through a corridor on my way out, I heard raised voices.

Celia and Julian, in the middle of an argument.

Not exactly the picture of newlywed bliss Patricia had described. Though — it might also have had something to do with the Instagram story I'd posted mid-conference. No caption. Just a photo where Julian's silhouette had happened to appear in the corner of the frame.

Some habits die hard.

Celia's voice was climbing: "Why didn't you reply to my messages? Why didn't you pick up? How am I supposed to know what you were doing in there?"

Julian's tone went flat. "I had my phone on silent during a conference. How is that a problem? Celia, why are you—"

"Don't tell me I'm imagining things—"

I kept walking.

Those exact words — I'd heard them from my own mouth, not so long ago. A few months in, and Celia had become exactly the anxious, frantic version of me I'd spent years trying not to be.

That evening, a member of the hotel staff called my room.

"Miss Mercer? A friend of yours — a gentleman — has had quite a lot to drink. He's asking for you downstairs."

Julian. Obviously.

I gave them Celia's number. "Try this — his girlfriend will come and get him."

A few minutes later, the same voice called back, apologetic. "He says he doesn't have a girlfriend."

I stood there for a moment.

I didn't know this city. If something happened to Julian and I could have helped, that was on me.

I went down and brought him upstairs.

The moment we were inside the room, he stumbled toward me and caught my wrist.

"Sophie. That post earlier." His voice was blurred, his eyes red. "You still care about me. Don't you?"

I freed my hand. "You're reading into things. You're sober enough to leave, so leave. I need to sleep."

He shook his head, over and over.

"Sophie," he said, voice dropping to something small and raw. "I regret it."

Celia kept calling. Julian finally switched his phone off.

He leaned back against the sofa cushions and laughed — a tired, hollow sound. "It's peaceful here. This is the first quiet moment I've had all day."

I nearly laughed myself.

When I'd loved him, he'd told me I was too sensitive, too demanding, too much. Now that I didn't, he remembered everything he'd taken for granted.

He nagged me into fetching a hangover remedy from the hotel kitchen — wouldn't hear of leaving until he'd had it. But by the time I came back from the small errand, he'd fallen asleep against the arm of the sofa.

He still looked exactly the same when he slept.

I'd spent so long loving him, and then even longer going through the withdrawal. Now, sitting across from him, the whole thing struck me as oddly clinical. I thought: maybe the obsession had been nothing more than burnout and hormones — the kind of craving that masquerades as love.

I called Celia.

She arrived in under ten minutes, barely suppressing her fury — keeping her voice low so as not to wake Julian. "Why is he here? What did you do?"

She moved through the room like a forensic investigator. Living room, bedroom, bathroom. She checked the bins.

I watched her from the doorway.

At this rate, I thought, I'd be curious to see how much longer the two of them lasted.

The year abroad ended well — a promotion and a salary increase to mark my return.

I came back for Christmas.

Julian brought Celia.

Both families at the same dinner table, same as always. Patricia spent the meal looking at Celia the way people look at a daughter-in-law they've already decided they like.

"Julian — when are you two thinking of making it official?"

Julian glanced at me. "Mum, we're young. No rush."

Celia's grip on her fork tightened. She smiled tightly. "We could at least get engaged, Julian."

When my parents started on me — someone who helped you move flats, the colleague who blocked a drink for you at the team-building, the son of a family friend who'd just graduated, very handsome, you should meet him — Dad had already pulled out his phone.

"He's coming fishing with me after Christmas anyway. Sophie, you should come. Meet him properly. No pressure."

Julian said, without looking up: "Sophie's busy that day."

Dad blinked. "She is?"

I jumped in smoothly: "Work thing. International call I can't move."

"I'd rather focus on the job right now. Meeting someone isn't urgent."

Celia set her fork down with a small clatter. Her voice was pleasant, but the words weren't: "Or maybe it's not urgent because someone here already has a preference for another woman's boyfriend."

The table went quiet.

Julian was on his feet before anyone could process it. "Celia. Enough."

She looked up at him. "Enough?"

Her phone was out. Three swipes, and she turned it to face the table.

"Let everyone here be the judge."

She smiled. "If Sophie really had no feelings for you — why were the two of them alone in a hotel room in Rio?"

The photo was from that night in Rio.

I'd had no idea she'd brought a hidden camera.

My parents were nearly out of their chairs defending me.

"One photo proves nothing."

"Look at them — they're both fully dressed. Nothing happened."

"You're a grown woman. You don't get to make those kinds of insinuations about someone's character based on a photograph."

Patricia stepped in too. "Celia, slow down. I've known Sophie since she was small. Julian thinks of her like a sister. When the families used to travel together, those two shared rooms all the time — isn't that right, Julian?"

Julian put a hand on Celia's arm, his voice quiet and hard. "That's enough. Stop."

He looked around the table. "I explained this to you already. I'd had too much to drink. The hotel called Sophie to come and get me because I didn't have Celia's number on me. Sophie didn't even know my room number, so I ended up resting in hers for a bit. That's it."

Celia shook him off. "You were drunk and you called your ex, not your girlfriend."

She said the word with perfect deliberate weight. Ex.

Every adult at the table went still.

Julian's jaw tightened. Celia pressed on, voice lifting with something close to triumph: "Since we're all here — might as well let everyone know. Your children have already slept together."

I smiled.

"Thanks for the reminder. I almost forgot we had history."

I tilted my head. "What was your relationship to Julian at the time, again? Lab colleagues, wasn't it?"

It came in handy then — the old habit I'd never quite shaken. The late nights I'd spent on my private blog, screenshot after screenshot, cataloguing every flirtatious late-night message Celia had ever sent him.

I pulled out my phone and laid it on the table, face-up.

"Since we're talking about who was interfering with whose relationship," I said pleasantly, "shall we figure that out together?"

"It's quite the puzzle."