Part 3: The Billionaire’s Script
Julian stood up, pulling me with him. His grip was firm, holding me steady when my legs threatened to give way.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pristine white silk handkerchief. With a gentleness that belied his imposing presence, he wiped the wine from my cheek and eyes.
“Mr… Mr. Thorne?” Mrs. Vance stammered, taking a step back. The microphone trembled in her hand. “What… what are you doing? This is a family matter. This woman is nobody.”
Julian turned to her. His movement was slow, predatory.
“Nobody?”
His voice boomed through the church. He didn’t need a microphone. He possessed the kind of voice that commanded boardrooms and silenced riots.
He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me against his side. The wine from my dress soaked into his suit jacket, but he didn’t flinch.
“Three years ago,” Julian addressed the crowd, his eyes scanning the room, “I was involved in a catastrophic accident on I-95. My car flipped. It caught fire. My security detail was unconscious. I was trapped, bleeding out, waiting to die.”
The room was deadly silent.
“Dozens of cars drove past me,” Julian continued. “They took photos. They slowed down to gawk. But only one person stopped.”
He looked down at me.
“This woman pulled me out of a burning wreck with her bare hands. She tore her own clothes to bind my wounds. She stayed with me until the ambulance came, and then she disappeared into the night without asking for a reward, a favor, or even giving her full name. I spent three years looking for her.”
He turned his gaze back to Mrs. Vance, who looked like she was about to be sick.
“She is the only person in this room with a soul. And you dare to call her a placeholder?”
“I… I didn’t know,” Mrs. Vance whispered.
“You didn’t care,” Julian corrected. “And as for your son…”
Julian laughed. It was a cold, terrifying sound.
“Ryan isn’t with an heiress, Mrs. Vance. Isabella Sterling doesn’t exist. She is an actress I hired from a theater company in London.”
Mrs. Vance dropped the microphone. It hit the floor with a deafening screech of feedback.
