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About a month later, a normal Saturday night.
My girlfriends had dragged me to a private karaoke lounge at a rooftop bar with some of their cousins and friends.
After a couple of hours, I wasn't drinking well and offered to run downstairs to the lobby convenience kiosk to grab more snacks.
I didn't expect Julian Pemberton to follow.
Julian was Chloe's cousin. I'd tutored him in middle-school math for free back in high school, when I used to do homework at Chloe's house and he'd lived right next door.
"I heard you're back for good this time," he said before I could.
I blinked, reached up, flicked his forehead like I had when we were teenagers.
"Hold on—you haven't teased me the way you used to once since I came back. Careful. I'll tattle to your parents."
He laughed, low, eyes pinned to me in a way that wasn't teenage anymore.
"Rowan. I—"
I didn't get to hear the rest.
A hand clamped around my wrist. Something yanked me backward, hard.
I stumbled, started to fall, and landed against a chest I recognized on contact.
"Ashton? What the hell are you doing here?"
By my calendar, this man should have been in Paris with his little assistant, living it up on the company card.
He didn't answer. He just looked at me.
"Rowan. I gave you a full month. However angry you were, however big a fight this was supposed to be, enough is enough."
He shot a possessive, contemptuous glance at Julian.
Right before I could tell him to get checked into a psychiatric ward, Juliet showed up.
She was holding two soft-serve ice-cream cones. Behind Ashton's back she rolled her eyes at me, then lit up into a saccharine smile.
"Rowan! Ashton's had a private investigator watching over you this whole month. He really can't live without you. You're such a kind person, please—eat the ice cream and forgive him. Forgive us."
I was quiet for a beat.
Then I smiled at Ashton. "Let me go. We'll find somewhere quiet and actually talk."
A flicker of relief lit his face. He loosened his grip.
The next thing I did surprised everyone in the room.
I grabbed the ice cream out of Juliet's hand and smashed it, full force, into her pretty little face.
She shrieked.
With a cone stuck in her hair and another dripping down her left eye, with every bystander turning to watch, a few actually started laughing.
I wasn't done.
I brushed the sticky residue off my hand. Back when I was a teenager my mother had been called into the principal's office for fighting more than once. I grabbed Juliet's hair before she could dive into Ashton's arms for comfort.
"Juliet. Were those eye rolls directed at someone? Care to repeat that?"
I didn't give her the chance to answer. In front of everyone, forehand and backhand, I slapped her face five or six times in rapid succession.
Her cheeks went scarlet. Blood started running from her nose.
Her sobs finally turned real, ugly, and raw. I shoved her—like throwing out garbage—in Ashton's direction.
The funny part: Ashton didn't catch her. She crawled toward him, sobbing, and just before she could touch his shoe, he stepped back in clear disgust.
Juliet froze.
Through the tears, she watched him walk past her without looking down. He walked straight to me, eyes wide and earnest.