Chapter 5: Midnight Confessions

At the beginning, he’d been a gentle, brilliant young tutor—someone who inspired everyone around him.

I remembered those early chapters: Julian helping Savannah with her science fair project, his easy laugh when she spilled coffee on his notes. He’d been patient, curious, and endlessly kind. The world had tried to crush that spirit, but I hoped it wasn’t too late to bring it back.

The novel described him as: “Julian Mercer was strikingly handsome, with a cold arrogance in his eyes. Even as a teenager, his essays stunned the academic world; he was a prodigy—a once-in-a-generation genius.”

I could recite those lines by heart, the way the author made him both a hero and a tragedy. He was the kind of character who lingered long after you closed the book.

But by the end, the story read: “He looked at the beautiful girl under the moonlight, the new head of the Langley trust pouring wine, the scent intoxicating. Julian smiled quietly. Now, he was a demon in the world’s eyes. He didn’t want the girl he loved to suffer, so he drank the cup of deadly poison in one gulp.”

That final image haunted me—the moonlight, the bitter wine, the quiet resignation in his smile. It was a tragedy that echoed the great American love stories, and I refused to let it be his ending.

For the rest of his life, wherever Julian went, he was alone—his world bleak and silent.

He wandered through empty rooms and quiet streets, a ghost in his own story. The world moved on, but he was left behind, unable to forgive or forget.

Now, the young man I once pitied sat at my bedside, meeting my gaze with eyes that held a challenge and a question I couldn’t quite answer.

There was a challenge in his stare, a silent plea for proof that things could be different. I met his eyes, determined to show him that this time, the story would change.

But this is just the beginning.

I took a deep breath, hope rising in my chest. The past was written, but the future was still mine to shape. I wouldn’t let fate win without a fight.

I tossed his jacket to him and said, as evenly as I could, "I’m done with you. Once your leg’s healed, you can leave my house."

My voice was cool, almost businesslike. I wanted him to know his freedom was his again—that he wasn’t my captive anymore. The words felt strange, but I forced them out.

I arranged for Julian to recover in one of the guest rooms.

I picked the sunniest room in the house, with big windows overlooking the winter garden. I told the staff to treat him as a guest, not a burden. I brought in a vase of yellow tulips and left a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird on his nightstand, hoping he’d find comfort in its pages.

Old mansions are full of secrets. Soon, rumors spread that Autumn Langley had lost interest, and the handsome young tutor was out of favor.

The gossip spread fast—whispers in the laundry room, side glances at dinner, the staff trading stories over mugs of cocoa in the kitchen. In the Langley house, nothing stayed hidden for long, and everyone loved a juicy rumor.

Hearing this, I felt uneasy and decided to check on him in the guest room.

I paused outside his door, listening to the soft shuffle of pages and the low hum of the old furnace. I knocked, then let myself in, determined to set things right.

The winter wind was fierce, and there wasn’t even a Honeywell space heater in the drafty hallway where Julian stayed.

The old windows rattled, and the air smelled faintly of cold and dust. I hugged myself, wishing for a flannel pajama top. The room felt empty and forgotten, a far cry from the warmth of the main house.

Dressed in black, his hair a little tousled, Julian sat shivering at a cherrywood desk, quietly reading a thick King James Bible.

The desk lamp cast a warm glow on his face, throwing shadows across his sharp cheekbones. He looked up as I entered, expression unreadable. The Bible lay open, its pages marked with his careful notes.

When he looked up, a lock of hair fell across his beautiful face, and my heart skipped a beat.

For a second, I forgot why I’d come. There was a vulnerability about him, a softness that made me want to reach out and comfort him.

“Why are you here?” Julian’s voice was hoarse, rough from disuse.

He cleared his throat, the words coming out raspy. I could hear the suspicion underneath, the worry that this was just another trick.

I walked slowly toward him and reached out to touch the back of his hand.

His skin was cold—startlingly so. I wrapped my fingers around his, hoping to share a little warmth. He stiffened at first, then, after a moment, let himself relax just a bit.

As expected, his hand was cold as ice.

I frowned, rubbing his hand between mine. No one deserved to be left alone in the cold—not even someone who hated me.

“Why haven’t you turned on the heater?”

I glanced around, spotting the old radiator in the corner. It was switched off, the dial turned all the way down. I made a mental note to have it fixed.

He gave me a thin, almost amused smile. “Now that I’m out of your favor, I’m just a pawn—worthless to everyone.”

His words were bitter, but there was a glint of challenge in his eyes. He wanted to see if I’d really follow through on my promises.

I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, but there was a dangerous glint in Julian’s smile, and I shivered, feeling the chill in the air deepen.

The room felt colder, the shadows darker. Beneath his calm exterior, Julian was dangerous—a survivor who’d learned to fight back in his own way.

Only then did I remember—in the original plot, Autumn died too early. In the latter half, Julian was ruthless, showing no mercy as he cleared the way for Savannah to take over the Langley trust, leaving a trail of bodies behind.

The memory made me shudder. The author had written Julian as a force of nature—unstoppable and fiercely loyal to Savannah. I wondered if I could change his fate, or if the story was set in stone.

I frowned and knelt down to meet his eyes.

I crouched beside his chair, searching his face for any sign of warmth. His eyes were dark and distant, but I refused to look away.

“Your injury can’t be exposed to the cold. If anyone mistreats you, you have the right to fire them. Whatever you need, just tell me. Before all this, you were my tutor—a respected guest in my house.”

I spoke as sincerely as I could, hoping he’d believe me. I wanted him to know he mattered, that he wasn’t just another pawn in the Langley family’s games.

Julian stared at me, a little dazed, and said, very deliberately, “Autumn, I need a heater. And a good pen, some ink, and decent paper.”

His voice was steady, but I caught a tremor beneath the words—a vulnerability he tried to hide. I nodded, making a mental note to bring him everything he’d asked for—a Moleskine notebook and a pack of Pilot G2 pens from my own stash.

“Those maids mistreated you. How do you want to punish them?”

I hesitated before asking, not wanting to force the issue, but giving him the power to decide. I wanted him to know his comfort and dignity mattered.

Julian thought for a moment, his voice low and steady: “No steak and no heat for the next two weeks.”

His answer surprised me—a punishment that was fair, not cruel. I smiled, a little relieved, feeling some of the tension ease from my shoulders.

I smiled—small and genuine, a hesitant curve of my lips. I hoped he saw it for what it was: a promise of better things to come.

This is the Julian I remember.

The Julian who valued fairness, who refused to let cruelty go unpunished but never stooped to outright vengeance. I felt a flicker of hope—maybe we could both find redemption after all.

The world called Julian Mercer a demon, but I knew better. He was a man who believed in repaying kindness with kindness, and evil with justice.

I understood him better than anyone else in this house. I knew the pain he carried, how he weighed every action against an invisible scale. He wasn’t a monster—just a man who’d been hurt too many times.

In the later plot, every cruel thing Julian did was for Savannah’s sake, never his own.

He was her shield, her sword, her silent protector. Every hard choice, every crime, was for her. It was a tragic devotion, the kind that left scars on both of them.

Julian was a fool for love—staining his hands with blood, ruining his name for the innocent girl who once smiled at him and saved him from the gutter, even dying to spare her pain.

I felt a pang of sympathy for him, for the way love had twisted his life into something unrecognizable. I wondered if I could save him from himself, or if he was already lost to fate.

My heart ached, sharp and deep.

I pressed a hand to my chest, willing the ache to subside. I wanted to reach out, to offer comfort, but I knew he wouldn’t accept it—not yet.

In Julian’s eyes, I am the villain—the daughter who ruined his life. Only Savannah is the one who saved him, his moon in a dark sky.

I watched him as he turned back to his Bible, the lamplight painting gold across his face. I wondered what it would take to change his mind—to show him that redemption was possible.

The moonlight was pale, and outside, the wind howled as a nor’easter battered the windows, snow piling up against the glass.

The old house groaned in the storm, and I pulled the covers up to my chin, listening to the distant sound of a train whistle echoing across the valley. The world felt vast and empty, and I wondered if I would ever truly belong here.

I lay in bed, thoughts spinning.

The sheets were cool, the pillow soft. I stared up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with my eyes, trying to quiet the storm inside my head.

Three months had passed. By my medical judgment, Julian’s injury should be nearly healed. So why was he still unable—or unwilling—to walk?

I replayed every treatment, every therapy session, searching for something I might have missed. I knew the signs of healing—stronger muscles, better circulation—but Julian still clung to his wheelchair. Doubt gnawed at me, whispering that I’d failed him.

Was it my skills that were lacking? Or was there a wound deeper than the body could show?

I considered the possibility of trauma—old wounds that refused to heal, no matter how much ointment or therapy I gave. Sometimes, the heart takes longer to mend than the body.

Suddenly, I heard the door creak open, the hinges groaning, and footsteps padding softly across the rug.

I froze, my heart racing. I kept my breathing slow and even, pretending to sleep as the footsteps drew closer.

I closed my eyes, feigning sleep, but I could sense someone standing at my bedside—the familiar scent of Vicks and lavender drifting over me.

That scent was unmistakable. It could only be Julian.

I listened to the quiet rustle of fabric, the soft sound of his breath. He was close—closer than he’d ever dared to come before.

Why had he come to my room in the dead of night? His leg was clearly healed—so why keep up the charade?

I wondered if he’d finally come to confront me, to demand answers I couldn’t give. Or maybe he was just as lost as I was, searching for comfort in the dark.

Julian sat on the edge of the bed, watched me for a long moment, then lifted the covers and slipped in beside me.

The mattress dipped under his weight, and I felt the warmth of his body through the quilt. My breath caught, and I lay perfectly still, afraid to move.

I panicked, clutching the rose-patterned quilt tightly, unsure if I should keep pretending to sleep or say something.

My mind raced—should I confront him, or wait? The room felt impossibly small, every sound amplified by the silence.

Julian gently tugged at the covers, and the belt of my LL Bean nightgown slipped to the floor. My skin prickled in the sudden chill, goosebumps rising along my arms.

The cold air bit at my skin, and I shivered, clutching the covers tighter. But Julian’s hand was gentle, his touch unexpectedly warm.

But soon, I didn’t feel cold anymore. His body pressed against mine, warmth spreading through me, and my heart hammered so hard it drowned out every other sound.

The heat of his body chased away the cold, and I felt my pulse race. I wasn’t sure if I was afraid or exhilarated—or maybe both. The world outside faded, leaving only the two of us and the darkness between us.

In the dark, I finally couldn’t help but open my eyes.

I blinked, adjusting to the dim light. Julian’s face was close—so close I could see the shadows flicker in his eyes. My breath caught, and I forced myself to speak.

“Julian, what are you doing?”

My voice was barely more than a whisper, shaky with fear and hope. I waited, heart in my throat, for his answer—knowing that whatever he said next would change everything between us.