Chapter 8 - The Party at the Estate
The rain had come and gone in Austin, leaving the night air sweet with the scent of wet cedar, jasmine, and warm limestone.
The Commodore Perry Estate was bathed in the warm, golden glow of hundreds of lanterns hanging from the massive live oak trees. In the sunken English garden, musicians played low, rhythmic bossa nova on acoustic guitars. Waiters in black aprons moved effortlessly through the crowd, carrying trays of sparkling champagne and grilled gulf oysters.
I stood by the edge of the stone terrace, watching the crowd.
Julian was by the fountain, enthusiastically explaining sensor architecture to Maya’s father, who was nodding thoughtfully while holding a craft beer. Maya was surrounded by three of our junior software engineers, laughing heartily at something one of them had said, her face luminous in the candlelight.
She wore a simple, backless emerald dress—not the stiff, uncomfortable garment Lauren had once worn, but a flowing, elegant piece that moved with her like liquid water. She wore no jewelry other than the sapphire ring and small pearl studs. She didn't need ornamentation; her grace came from within.
Julian walked over, handing me a glass of sparkling water with lime.
“You’re brooding, Cross,” Julian said with a grin. “CTOs aren't allowed to brood at their own engagement parties. It’s bad for morale.”
“I’m not brooding,” I said, smiling as I looked across the garden at Maya. “I was just thinking about the warehouse. The cot in the back room.”
Julian’s grin softened into something profound and respectful. “We survived the desert, brother. Look around. You built an oasis.”
“We did,” I said, clinking my glass against his.
At that moment, from the stone archway that led from the main estate driveway to the sunken garden, there was a sudden disturbance.
A sharp, angry voice broke through the soft music.
“Sir, you cannot enter without an invitation. This is a private event!”
“Let go of me! I know him! I’m his... I have to see Ethan!”
The music faltered. The acoustic guitarist let a chord hang unresolved in the air. Conversations quieted as heads began turning toward the iron gates at the garden entrance.
Julian frowned, setting his glass on a stone balustrade. “What the hell is that?”
I didn't answer.
A chill, old and familiar, ran down the back of my neck. I recognized that voice. I would have recognized that voice if I had been deaf for fifty years.
The private security guard we had hired—a six-foot-two retired Austin police officer named Marcus—was trying to gently guide a woman back toward the parking area. But she broke free, stumbling through the wrought-iron gate and stepping awkwardly onto the gravel path of the sunken garden.
The crowd parted in stunned silence.
It was Lauren.
She looked like a ghost that had clawed its way out of an abandoned grave.
She was wearing a designer dress—a pale pink silk dress that I remembered from three summers ago, but it was now faded, wrinkled, and visibly stained near the hem. Her blonde hair, which had always been immaculate, was stringy, damp from the evening humidity, and pulled into a frantic, messy knot. Her makeup was smudged beneath her eyes, giving her the wild, hollow look of someone who hadn't slept in seventy-two hours.
Her shoes—once pristine Christian Louboutins—had a scuffed toe and a broken heel, causing her to limp slightly as she stumbled over the gravel.
She looked wildly around the courtyard, blinking against the string lights, until her eyes locked onto me.
“Ethan,” she gasped.
The sound of my name in her mouth caused a collective hush to fall over the entire terrace.
Maya stopped talking. She turned slowly, her amber eyes taking in the scene with calm, watchful dignity. Julian stepped forward, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’ll have security drag her out to the street.”
“No,” I said, my voice quiet, flat, and absolute. “Don’t touch her.”
I set my glass down on the stone balustrade.
I stepped down from the terrace, my boots crunching softly on the pea gravel, and walked ten paces into the center of the open courtyard.
The eighty guests stood frozen. The only sound was the fountain bubbling softly behind us and the distant hum of traffic on Red River Street.
May you like
Lauren took three frantic, limping steps toward me, then stopped, as if she had just collided with an invisible wall made of the space between who I had been and who I was now.
***
