The Last Seven Days on Fifth Avenue

The year he loved me most, Julian Astor swore he’d die before his mother would let our engagement fall through. That was the same year he begged me to marry him. And now, he’s the one bringing his cousin into our lives, insisting she move in with us—on the same day we get married. Just before the wedding, Julian had the nerve to call and lay down the law. "Clara’s had a tough life," he said, his voice smooth and commanding. "Letting her live with us is already a step down for her pride. On the wedding day, my driver will pick her up first and bring her to the estate. You just be a good girl, Nora. Don't make a scene." What Julian didn't know was that I had already called the whole thing off with his mother. Tomorrow, I'm leaving New York for good. As for who gets picked up first, Clara or some other girl, it has nothing to do with me anymore. en I went to the Astor's penthouse on Fifth Avenue to officially end things, his mother, Eleanor Astor, asked me, "Nora, are you absolutely sure about this?" I just nodded. "You understand," she continued, her voice sharp but not unkind, "once you walk away from the Astors, even if you're not the one at fault, breaking into this circle again, finding someone of a… comparable stature… will be next to impossible." I met her gaze, my own unwavering. After I signed the papers dissolving the prenuptial agreement, she sighed and had her head of household, Mrs. Gable, show me out. Mrs. Gable took me the long way, past the rooftop conservatory. Tucked away in a corner were two faint, worn patches on the expensive turf, completely out of place with the rest of the manicured perfection. I couldn't help but stare. Mrs. Gable's eyes misted over. "I still remember it," she said softly. "Three years ago. Mr. Julian knelt right there, begging Mrs. Astor to let him marry you. She wouldn't budge, so he stayed out here for three days and nights. No food, no water. We thought we were going to lose him." I froze, the memory hitting me like a physical blow. 2yents were entrepreneurs—new money. I was a "business girl." Julian was an Astor, the heir to a fortune that was practically American royalty. Our worlds weren't supposed to mix. But when I was seven, my parents and I were at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, and through a crazy turn of events, I helped a lost little boy find his security detail. That boy was Julian. After that, he never really left me alone. Seven-year-old Julian was a cherubic kid in a tiny cashmere coat. The man he grew into was devastatingly charming. To say I didn't fall for him would be a lie. But loving him was one thing. Marrying into his world was another. Julian knew my fears. He promised I would be his wife, his equal. When his mother objected, he staged that dramatic protest on their Hamptons lawn. I remember seeing him in his bed afterward, pale, his lips cracked, looking like a fragile porcelain doll. He was barely conscious, but he leaned his head on my shoulder and whispered, "Nora, my mother agreed. She finally agreed." His voice was weak, but his eyes were shining. "You're going to be my wife. My only one." The sky was full of stars that night, but none of them burned as brightly as the smile on his face. A universe of stars that I’ll never see again. 3 MG was about to say more when the sound of laughter echoed from the hallway. Not far off, Julian was playing a game of tag with Clara among the modern sculptures. They were so caught up they didn't see us. In a clumsy, playful lunge, Julian grabbed Mrs. Gable from behind, thinking she was Clara. "Gotcha!" he teased, his voice husky. Then he pulled off his blindfold. His grin vanished when he saw Mrs. Gable's stony, unamused face. Clara, with her perfect timing, rushed over, pouting. "Julian, you found me!" Mrs. Gable had clearly had enough of her act. "Mrs. Astor was very clear," the housekeeper said, her voice dripping with ice. "The young lady is not to act improperly with the master of the house before she is formally a guest. She instructed me to discipline Miss Clara on her behalf. A stern verbal warning is in order." Before Julian could process it, Mrs. Gable delivered a verbal dressing-down so sharp and precise it was more humiliating than a slap. Clara's face went from pale to crimson. Then, Clara’s tear-filled eyes landed on me. She immediately crumpled to the floor. "Nora," she sobbed, "it's my fault. I shouldn't have stolen your thunder, moving in on the same day. If you hate me, you should have just said so! Why did you have to run to Mrs. Astor and have her... have her servant huliate mlike this? I may not have much, but I still have my pride! This is just cruel!" Julian spun on me. "Nora, what are you even doing here? You should be at home, getting ready for the wedding." Before I could answer, Clara dramatically lurched towards a marble column as if to hit her head, then swayed and collapsed in a heap. "Are you happy now?!" Julian shot at me. He gave me a hard shove, then rushed to Clara's side, cradling her. "Somebody! Get my security! Use my card to get Dr. Andrews from his private practice over here, now!" The hallway was decorated with a large, brutalist metal sculpture with wickedly sharp edges. Julian had pushed me right against it. A sharp pain made me hiss. "Miss, you're bleeding," Mrs. Gable said, alarmed. Julian's gaze flickered to my right hand. The palm was sliced open, a messy combination of blood and mangled skin. He hesitated, a flash of concern in his eyes, but before he could speak, Clara moaned from his arms. "I know... I'll never be lucky like Nora... marrying a man like you, Julian," she whispered, as if delirious. "To die in your arms... I have no regrets." Whatever softness was in Julian's face hardened instantly. He looked back at me, his voice laced with contempt. "It's just a little blood, stop being so dramatic. Clara's life is on the line and she hasn't made a sound. Your little tricks for attention are pathetic, Nora. I'm starting to find you disgusting." "Mr. Julian, you will watch your tone!" Mrs. Gable snapped. "Mrs. Gable, I respect you because you helped raise me, but don't forget your place. I am the heir to this family, and you are staff!" He didn't notice the faint, triumphant smile that touched Clara's lips as she lay "unconscious" in his arms. Before he left, Julian lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. "This is the last time. If you ever mess with Clara again, I swear to God, I'll call off this wedding myself." "Sir, you don't understand, Miss Nora came to see your mother to—" Mrs. Gable blurted out, trying to defend me. I shook my head slightly, signaling her to stop. I knew Julian. It was all or nothing with him. If I told him I was the one ending it, he'd just see it as another power play, another move in a game against Clara. What was the point? Besides, when I met with his mother, she signed the papers, but she didn't give them to me. "Nora," she'd said, "I know your mind is made up. But please, for my sake, give my son one last chance. Indulge an old woman's foolish hope." So, we made a bet. A seven-day bet. To see if Julian would notice, truly notice, that was gting ready to leave his life forever. When we made the wager, Mrs. Gable had been so sure. "Seven days? Miss, he's a sharp one. He'll figure it out in one." Now, Julian stared at me suspiciously. "What did you need to see my mother for?" "To complain," I said flatly. As the word left my mouth, I felt the familiar heat rise in my ears. Mrs. Gable saw it instantly in the afternoon light, her expression turning hopeful. Lying always made my ears turn bright red. It was a dead giveaway. Back when he was still trying to win me over, Julian would catch me in a fib and just stare at my glowing ears with a knowing smirk. "You know your ears turn red when you lie, right, Nora?" he’d say. I’d get flustered and try to run, but he’d corner me under the cherry trees in the Brooklyn otanic Garden, cherry blossoms falling around us like snow. He’d lean in, his voice low and serious. "Nora. I'm in love with you." After we got engaged, he loved telling people my quirks. How I loved the cannolis from that little bakery in Little Italy, how I was terrified of eating fish after choking on a bone as a kid, and how my ears always betrayed me when I lied. He'd told the story so many times that even Mrs. Gable could spot my lie from a mile away. But Julian, the man who claimed to know me best, just scoffed. "Complain? That's so childish. God, Nora, sometimes I really regret fighting so hard to marry you." He turned his back on me without another glance, carrying Clara away down the hall. I watched him go, a bitter taste filling my mouth. My heart felt like it was being squeezed and torn apart, a million tiny pinpricks of pain. Even though I had prepared myself for this, hearing those words from him still hurt more than I could bear. Mrs. Gable stamped her foot in frustration. "Idiot! Complete and utter fool! How could Mrs. Astor have raised such a blind fool? Are we sure he wasn't switched at birth?" She muttered to herself, trying to salvage the situation. "Don't you worry, miss. Don't you worry. There are still six days left. There's time! There's time!" I let out a small, humorless laugh. A breeze swept through the conservatory. Petals swirled in the air. I reached out and caught one. The flowers were just as beautiful this year. What a waste. 4 My bet wilr Astor had stakes. If she won, I'd tear up the annulment papers and marry Julian. If she lost, she'd grant me one favor a day. Day one, she lost. My request was for a vial of the Seraphina Serum. It was a legendary, custom-compounded formula from a private clinic in Switzerland, famous for its regenerative properties. One course of treatment, and they said your skin would be flawless, scars vanished. Hearing my request, Mrs. Gable assumed I was finally going to fight for Julian's affection. She was practically giddy when she delivered it to my apartment. "If you really put your mind to it, miss, that Clara doesn't stand a chance against you. Not even for a second." Then she saw the raw, gaping wound on my palm, and her excitement turned to horror. "Oh, dear child. That must have hurt so terribly." I managed a small smile. "It's better that it hurts. The pain helps you remember." After she left, I called my assistant. "Take this to Catherine Sheffield," I instructed. "Go to the service entrance. Knock three times. Make sure you hand it directly to Catherine herself, no one else." The serum was for Catherine. She's three years older than me, a kind, brilliant woman who once defended me when some society snobs were making fun of my "new money" background. But she married the wrong man. That bastard from the Sheffield family was cheating on her openly with his assistant. Three days ago, Catherine was violently mugged coming out of a charity event. Her husband? He was "out of town" with his mistress and didn't eve bother to come back. Catherine survived, but the attack left a deep, ugly scar across her cheek. Before this, she was known as the most beautiful woman in Manhattan. The Seraphina Serum was meant for her. 5 On the second,ent to my shops downtown early. My family's business consisted of about a hundred retail properties—some my parents left me, and a few Julian had given me as gifts. I’d already found buyers for my parents’ properties. The ones from Julian were trickier: two bakeries, a designer clothing boutique, a high-end cosmetics shop, and a custom jewelry store. The cosmetics shop, in particular, was a gold mine. My plan was simple: sell the property deeds to the current store managers, who I trusted, and transfer the money back to the Astor family account. The deals for the bakery, jewelry, and clothing stores went smoothly. But when I got to the cosmetics shop, I ran into Clara. Her forehead was smooth, a touch of pink highlighter at her brow bone. Not a scratch on her. When the manager, Mr. Shaw, greeted me as "the owner," she let out a derisive laugh. "Owner? Please. We all know you just sweet-talked my cousin into giving you one of the best retail spots in the city." Mr. Shaw, ever the professional, simply smiled and politely escorted her out. After we finalized the contract, he paused before signing. "Ms. Vance," he asked, his eyes sharp, "when you leave the city, are you heading to the West Coast, by any chance?" I was surprised. "How did you know I was going to California?" "I'm not blind, ma'am. A few days ago, I saw you arranging for two large shipping containers. The manifest listed a month's worth of personal supplies and several crates of... artisan textiles. Out of all the markets in the country, that specific style does best out west. It was just a guess." "You're right. I'm leaving New York to start a new business there." "Forgive me for being blunt, but I don't believe you. Your New York network is your lifeblood. You wouldn't liquidate everything just to expand. I'm not a genius, but I'm loyal. Please, when you go, take me with you." "Why? Isn't business good here in New York?" I asked, genuinely confused. By my estimates, his appointment book was full for the next three months. "I have someone... a fiancée... in California," he said, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I've been in love with her for a long time. It took me ten years to save up enough to finally propose and feel worthy of her. The drive across the country is long and hard. A direct move with your resources would be much easier. I'd be happy to work for you there." I looked at him. "And would you, after getting engaged, invite your cousin to come live with you and your fiancée?" He looked horrified. "What? Of course not! I'm marrying into her family. If I triedo pl a stunt like that, her brothers would probably bury me in the desert!" He looked down, embarrassed by his outburst. "Okay," I said. "I'll take you with me. Be ready to leave in six days." When I got back to my apartment, Julian was there, sipping a whiskey. He scowled when he saw me. "Our wedding is in six days," he snapped. "And you're out all day, running around town with other men. What is that supposed to look like?" "After I marry into your family, I won't be able to manage these businesses personally. The managers have been excellent, so I decided to sell the properties to them. It saves the Astor family any potential embarrassment." Julian stared at me, his eyes fixed on my ears. They were burning hot. They must have been beet red. I felt a pang of panic. Did he see? Did he finally realize I was lying to him? 6 He hesitated for a nhen reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. Inside was a pair of stunning ruby and diamond earrings, shaped like butterfly wings. "Here. These are for you." I took the box and set it on the table without opening it. His face tightened with anger. "Clara begged me for those for weeks, and I didn't give them to her. I give them to you, and you act like they're nothing. Nora, there's a limit to how much you can sulk!" He had forgotten. I don't have pierced ears. I never wear earrings. Sensing he had the upper hand, he pressed his advantage. "Where's the deed to that cosmetics shop on the west side? Give it to me. Clara doesn't have much of a trust fund. If she moves into the estate with nothing to her name, people will talk." "But everyone in New York knows you gave me that shop as an engagement present," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "Giving it to Clara as a 'welcome to the family' gift… that's what will make peoplealk." Why do you have to be so petty, Nora? It's just one property! Besides, I gave it to you, which means I have the right to decide who gets it! If my mother hadn't put a limit on my monthly allowance, you think I'd be here asking you for it?" "Well, you're too late. I already sold the deed to the manager. The money has been wired to your family's account. If you want it, you'll have to ask your mother." "You did this on purpose," he snarled, his eyes flashing. "You went to my mother to make Clara look bad, didn't you?" "If that's what you want to believe, fine," I said, my exhaustion hitting me like a wall. "I'm tired. Rose, please show Mr. Astor out." Julian, convinced I had done it all just to spite Clara, stormed out, muttering under his breath. Before he left, he snatched the jewelry box off the table. "If you don't want them," he spat, "I know someone who will." Because of our bet, Eleanor Astor had people keeping tabs on us. The moment Julian left my building, a report was sent to her. On the second day, she lost again. This time, my prize was simple: I asked her to forgive my "presumptuousness" in selling the properties without consulting her fi

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