Page 104 of Man of the Year

The sight of him yanks me back to the days at The Splendors Mansion a year ago, the days that still feel surreal, something I dreamed up.

For weeks after The Splendors fire, the story was all over the news. I didn’t leave home, waiting for someone—anyone—to knock on my door. But there were no unexpected visits from the police or FBI, just like Julien had promised.

I read everything I found online about the case. Nick ended up in a coma, in the hospital, and died several days later from complications from the chemical he was injected with.

A week later, Cara was released from the hospital with minimum brain damage except for dizziness and memory issues. I took her on a road trip to New Hampshire, where we stayed at a secluded rental cabin for several weeks. Cara told me about Phil Crain and her dealings with Rich. I pretended to be angry about her never letting me in on the story. But I couldn’t be angry when I was hiding so much more from her.

During those weeks, I scanned the news and crypto blogs daily. There were so many theories about what had really gone down at The Splendors, but none of the bloggers or investigators got the story right. They suspected the Freemasons, the Black Rock corporation, the World Economic Forum. Some proposed Russian KGB involvement, because one of the names mentioned by the reporters was Russian. Probably “Natalia,” courtesy of Phil Crain. Many concluded that this was a government operation, considering the FBI magically uncovered the IxResearch hidden offshore accounts as well as the money from Nick’s Metrix Technologies scam. Most investors got their money back, and the government agencies quickly appropriated the title of the heroes.

A year later, and Nick is still labeled “the evil mastermind” behind the biggest crypto scandal. Phil Crain became a semi-celebrity. I’m sure his acting career will skyrocket now that he’s out of prison.

I put the magazine aside, feeling somewhat triumphant about the cover-up but slightly upset about the fact that I will never get all the answers about Julien.

As I wait for my pastries to be wrapped, I lean on the counter and stare out the window. At the café across the street, a man at a table catches my attention, his familiar face whipping me back in time. Goosebumps cover my skin at the sight of him, though it’s hot in the bakery.

It can’t be…

He’s dressed in the true Santorini fashion—linen pants, white loose button-up over a muscle tank, sunglasses. I would’ve thought he was a hallucination if I didn’t know his mannerism so well, his toned body, confident stance as he gets up, the sharp jaw, the way every movement seems calculated and on point when he tosses money onto the table and starts walking away.

“You gotta be kidding me,” I murmur, not believing my eyes. “Christina, I’ll be right back!” I say to the bakery owner and dart outside.

Maybe this is a mirage. I’ve thought about Julien so much in the last year that my mind might be doing tricks. But I have to make sure. So when I see him turning the corner into a narrow side street, I dart after him.

I find the street empty. I keep walking, peering into the distance, but after a minute or so, I give up, discouraged. Maybe I’ve completely lost my mind.

“Hello, Natalie.”

The soft voice whips me around, and the man in white steps out from behind an archway. He takes off his sunglasses, a smile playing on his tanned face as he takes slow steps toward me.

“Long time no see,” he says in a voice that makes my head spin.

My knees go weak. I try to say something, but the words get stuck. My heart beats so loud that it makes the rest of the world fall away.

“Itisyou,” I finally manage to say, and despite trying to hold it back, my lips spread into a grin.

* * *

JULIEN

She looks lovely. Sun-kissed skin. Long, loose hair swept over her right shoulder. Jean shorts and a loose white tank, covering a lime-green string bikini top. The sight of her so close to me makes a smile pull at my lips.

I’ve watched her for a year. Mostly on public cameras. Occasionally, on the streets. I was making sure she was safe and had no tail, though, as per my intel, the FBI hadn’t figured out who was the housekeeper mentioned by Phil Crain. All he knew was that her name was “Natalia.” The composite sketch was general at best. So were the ones of the other personnel at The Splendors. Phil took on the Rosenberg role so close to heart that he indeed thought he was above everyone else, including the staff.

This is the closest Natalie and I have been to each other in a year. But this time, when she looks at me, her gray eyes glint with delight.

Am I imagining it?

I study her face for any trace of bitterness, but there’s none. Her full lips slowly spread in a smile, though the tiny vein on her neck pulsates with the speed of hummingbird wings. She’s nervous, though she shouldn’t be.

“Itisyou,” she says, not hiding her excitement. “I thought I was hallucinating…” A quiet laugh leaves her lips, then she goes quiet for a moment, her eyes roaming my face. “How have you been, Julien?”

I know everything there is to know about her by now. Following her to Greece was intentional. I have a lot to discuss with her, but I start with the basics.

“It’s Luke,” I say, carefully studying her reaction. “My name—it’s Luke.”

“Luke,” she repeats, making something flare up inside me. It’s too early to expect her to trust me, but, damn, the way she says my name is delicious. I want to hear her say it one more time.

“Nice to see you again,” she says. “Luke,” she repeats, as if tasting the sound of it.

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