Juliana’s heart squeezed as if a hand had invaded her chest. “Thank you for letting me know, Marty,” she said. “Please keep me posted.” She managed to keep her voice steady, but inside she was crying again. Oh, Dirk! I’m so sorry.
* * *
The mood on the set that morning was somber, subdued. Everyone had heard the news about Dirk’s wife, and everyone was shocked. The story had been plastered across the internet, and though many of the details were luridly wrong, the basic fact was true—Sabrina was dead. Many of the people on the set had known Sabrina, if only casually, but they all knew Dirk. Liked him. Respected him. Some even loved him—he was that kind of man. So no one was in the mood to film the last scenes on a movie that bore Dirk’s stamp until Juliana made a speech.
“I know we’re all in shock right now,” she said when everyone was assembled. “And I for one don’t want to be here. But until this movie wraps I’m stuck here. We’re all stuck here. I think we owe it to Dirk to be professionals, the same as he is. Let’s finish this movie for him. So we can all go back and give him our moral support as soon as possible.”
She looked around the room, taking in the tearstains on some faces, including Maddie’s face as well as that of Neil Grantham, the actor who was playing Dirk’s grown son Raoul in the movie. Dirk had taken the young man under his wing, patiently coaching him the same way he’d done with Juliana on Jetsam. Working with him one-on-one to get the best performance out of him, but not just for the movie. Because he wanted to help others be the best they could be, just as he always tried to do his best, too. One of the scenes today was between Eleonora and Raoul, an intensely emotional moment between mother and son. If they could get through that scene, they could get through the rest. “Can we do that for Dirk?” she asked the group, but her eyes never left Neil’s face.
She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat when Neil’s expression changed, resolution replacing the shock and sadness. “I can do it,” Neil said, his eyes steely, looking more like the Raoul of the history books than he ever had before. Then everyone else chimed in—the cast, the crew, even the director, a longtime friend of Dirk’s.
* * *
Juliana had already changed costumes and had her makeup refreshed in a break between scenes when she looked up and saw Andre—ever-present bodyguard at his side—standing a short distance away, watching her. She walked over to him, taking in the slight strain in his expression. Maybe most people wouldn’t have seen it, but she did because she loved him.
“I was sorry to hear about your friend,” Andre said softly before Juliana could say anything to him. “You and she were very close, yes?”
She nodded mutely, then said in a voice as soft as his, “She was like the older sister I never had, and in some ways like the mother I hardly remember. I could tell her things I could never tell anyone else.” She blinked rapidly to hold back the tears that would ruin her makeup. “That’s why it hurt so much when you accused me...” She didn’t have to finish. She knew Andre understood what she was referring to.
“I am sorry, little one. I did not understand. Not then.”
Juliana glanced at Andre’s bodyguard, wanting to say more but unable to speak what was in her heart in front of him. She knew all Andre’s bodyguards had to be discreet—he wouldn’t tolerate one who wasn’t. But she still couldn’t talk freely in front of them. Andre understood that, too.
“Damon,” he said, not turning his face away from Juliana’s. “Please give us privacy.”
“Yes, Sire,” the bodyguard replied promptly, moving far enough away so they wouldn’t be overheard, but close enough to still guard Andre...should it be necessary. And his gaze continually swept the room.
“You are returning to Los Angeles for the funeral,” Andre said before she could. “My private plane could take you...and anyone else who wishes to go.”
Touched by his offer, Juliana thanked him but shook her head and said, “The funeral won’t be for at least a week. Marty—Dirk’s agent and mine—is arranging everything, so I don’t have to rush back. But I do have to go.” She didn’t want to leave Andre, not now, but she had to attend the funeral. Not only for Dirk, but for Sabrina, too. And for herself. To grieve...and to accept her friend was never coming back.
“And then...?”
She took a deep breath. “I want to return to Zakhar,” she said on a rush. “If...if you want me to.”
He went very still, almost as if he were afraid to breathe. “Come to me, Juliana,” he whispered. “I have been waiting forever. If you come to me I will know—”