Chapter 10 - Lucy
If there is one thing I’ve learned about wealthy corporate clients, it’s that urgent rarely means urgent.
It means someone important got nervous.
Or someone important got curious.
Or someone important decided they didn’t like the idea of trusting a stranger with something they care about, even if that something is, technically, a holiday party.
When Karen calls me mid-morning and says, “They want you to present in person,” my first instinct is to laugh.
My second instinct is to check my calendar, because nothing in my life happens without pushing something else aside.
“Did you send them the timeline?” Karen asks.
“Yes,” I say, balancing my phone between my shoulder and ear while I clear space on the kitchen table. My mom is sleeping in the living room. The curtains are drawn. The apartment is quiet in that careful way it gets when we’re all trying not to wake her.
“And you sent them the staffing plan?”
“Yes.”
“And the budget breakdown?”
“Yes,” I repeat, as if saying it enough times will make the question stop feeling personal.
Karen exhales. “Okay. Then don’t take it as a criticism. Take it as… Northwell being Northwell.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they like to look you in the eye,” she says. “They want to assess you. They want to know you can handle them.”
I bite back a comment about handling them like they’re wild animals.
Instead, I say, “Sure. I can do that.”
“Good,” Karen says, and then her tone gentles. “And Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
“They’re paying the rush fee.”
My pulse quickens, and it has nothing to do with corporate logistics and everything to do with pill organizers and specialist waitlists and the word trial sitting in my brain like a countdown clock.
“Okay,” I manage.
I hang up and stare at my laptop for a second, then at my work bag by the door.
I should be used to this by now. The weird last-minute requests. The power plays are disguised as meetings. The way money makes people think their anxiety is an emergency, you can invoice.
But something about Northwell feels different.
Not worse.
Just… sharper.
Like walking into a room full of wolves and being expected to smile as if you belong there.
I finish my coffee, kiss my mom’s forehead on my way out, and text Em a reminder to eat something that isn’t vending machine food.
She responds with a heart and: Grabbed the leftovers from the fridge, thanks, mom.
I smile and chuckle to myself.
Northwell’s lobby is exactly what you’d expect: glass, steel, marble, and a kind of polished silence that makes you instinctively lower your voice. Even the people walking through it look like they were styled for the part, tailored coats, expensive shoes, purposeful expressions.
I tell myself I belong here because I’m working.
That’s it.
I’m not intimidated by money. I never have been. I’m intimidated by people who think money makes them untouchable, because they tend to be the worst amongst us.
At the reception desk, the woman in a sleek black blazer glances at my name and smiles professionally.
“Ms. Bennett. They’re expecting you.”
They. Not someone. Not HR. Not the team.
They.
A man escorts me to the elevator and up to the twenty-seventh floor, where the air feels cooler, and the lighting feels brighter, and everything feels… controlled.
Like the building itself is holding its breath.
“You’re early,” the escort says as we walk.
“I prefer it,” I reply.
He nods like that’s the correct answer.
He opens a conference room door and gestures for me to go inside, and I stop.
Because the room is already full.
Not full of assistants or managers or people who might actually need the presentation I’ve prepared.
Full of them.
I researched the company after my first visit here and immediately recognized the men in this room.
Julian North is at the head of the table, posture calm, expression unreadable. He looks like authority given human form: a tailored suit, quiet intensity, eyes that make you feel assessed even when he isn’t speaking. There isn’t a thing out of place on him, every piece of hair is perfectly placed.
It makes me want to run my hand down my dress to make sure it isn't creased from the journey here.
To his right sits Elliot Vale, blond, broad-shouldered, the kind of handsome that feels friendly until you realize it’s weaponized. He’s smiling like this is all a bit amusing.
Theo North is sprawled in a chair, as if he’s been told to sit still and decided to make it a personal challenge. His grin is already halfway to trouble. To my knowledge, he doesn't work for Northwell, but he has been here for both of my visits.
At the far end of the room stands Rowan Black. Not sitting. Just… there. Arms crossed. Watching. The kind of presence that doesn’t need to announce itself to be felt.
And beside the coffee station is Caleb Mercer. Dark hair. Sharp suit. Everything about him screams clean and composed. He looks up when I enter, and his eyes flick over me, and it's calculated, not curious.
I swallow.
Okay.
This is one of those “look you in the eye” situations.
The escort closes the door behind me.
Julian’s gaze moves to me, steady and direct.
“Ms. Bennett,” he says.
His voice is calm. Not warm. Not cold. Just… controlled. Like he’s already decided what kind of conversation this will be.
“Good afternoon,” I manage, because suddenly my mouth is very aware it exists. “Thank you for making the time.”
Theo snorts quietly, like what I said amused him.
Elliot’s smile widens, like he’s enjoying the show.
Julian gestures to the chair nearest the screen. “You can start whenever you’re ready.”
No small talk.
No easing in.
Perfect.
I set my bag down, open my laptop, connect to the screen with hands that don’t shake because I refuse to let them, and take a breath.
“You received the preliminary timeline yesterday,” I begin, voice steady. “This presentation expands on that and includes contingency planning, staffing, and execution details for the internal holiday event.”
Theo whispers, stage-loud, “Internal holiday event,” as if the words taste funny.
I ignore him.
I click on the first slide.
“As requested, I’ve structured the plan around minimal disruption to operations. That means a strong flow plan, clear time blocks, and limited movement through high-security areas.”
Rowan’s gaze sharpens slightly, like he approves that I’ve said the words high-security areas without being prompted.
Good.
“As far as theme goes,” I continue, “I’m proposing something simple but elevated. Classic holiday, think warm lighting, real greenery, minimal clutter. You want it to feel intentional, nostalgic, not like a mall exploded.”
Theo makes a choking sound like he’s trying not to laugh.
Elliot shifts in his chair, amused.
Julian doesn’t react.
I move into logistics. Guest flow. Catering stations are placed to prevent bottlenecks. A check-in structure that doesn’t create a line visible from the main entryway.
I watch Julian’s eyes when I say certain things, how they narrow slightly when I mention timing, how his attention sharpens when I talk about security coordination.
He’s listening.
Actually listening.
That’s… unexpected.
Halfway through, I glance at Theo by accident.
He’s watching me like I’m a magic trick he hasn’t figured out yet.
When I finish the staffing overview, he raises his hand.
Like we’re in school.
I blink. “Yes?”
“Is it common,” he asks with a straight face, “for all the founders of a company to be at a meeting about planning a Christmas party?”
There’s a beat of silence.
I can feel Julian’s stillness.
Rowan doesn’t move.
Caleb looks mildly entertained.
Elliot’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh.
I keep my expression neutral.
“I can’t speak to what’s common for Northwell,” I say evenly. “But if leadership is present, I assume the event matters.”
Theo’s grin turns wicked. “Oh.... It matters.”
Elliot coughs, covering a smile.
Theo's hand shoots up again, and I resist rolling my eyes. If I weren't being paid so much and if that money weren't going to my mom's trial, I'd seriously consider walking out and telling Karen to assign someone else.
"Mr. North?"
Theo's smile is blinding. "Would you say that your childhood Christmases were nostalgic and classic?"
I blink at him, because... what? My mind spins with a polite and professional way to respond. But I don't get a chance.
Julian’s gaze flicks once toward Theo in what might be a warning, and then back to me.
“All right,” Julian says smoothly, as if Theo didn’t just derail my presentation. “Continue.”
I do.
Because I’m professional.
Because I’m good at this.
Because no one in my life benefits from me being intimidated by a billionaire in a suit.
When I reach the end, I flip to the final slide: the execution timeline, deliverables, and my day-of emergency contact protocol.
“And,” I add, because I can’t help myself, “I’ve already drafted a backup plan for weather disruptions. If Chicago decides to be Chicago, we’ll have a contingency shuttle system ready.”
Theo laughs easily. “I like her.”
I pretend I didn’t hear it.
Julian looks at the final slide, then at me.
“This is more than we asked for,” he says.
My stomach flips.
I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or a problem.
“It seemed prudent,” I say carefully. “I prefer to plan for variables.”
Rowan’s gaze holds mine for a beat, approving.
Caleb rises from his seat, then, finally, and walks toward me.
Up close, he’s even more composed. The kind of man who doesn’t waste expression.
“Caleb Mercer,” he says, holding out his hand. Like, he finally remembers we have never met.
I shake it. His grip is firm, brief, and efficient.
“Lucy Bennett,” I reply.
Rowan doesn’t come closer. He gives a polite nod from the end of the table.
“Rowan Black,” he says, voice low.
I nod back. “Nice to meet you, Mr Black.”
Theo stands abruptly, like he can’t sit still another second.
“So,” he says, eyes on me, “are you coming to the Christmas Party?”
I blink. “I’ll be working the event.”
His smile widens, slow and pleased. “So, you’ll be there.”
“Yes,” I say, confused.
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m an interesting problem.
Then he mutters, as if he'd forgotten other people exist, “You look soft.”
I stop so fast that my heel catches on the carpet.
“Excuse me?” I say, turning fully toward him.
Theo’s eyes go wide for half a second, then he laughs, throwing up both hands like he’s surrendering.
“Not like that,” he says quickly. “Not weak soft. Just... soft. Like… different. Nice.”
I stare at him.
He gestures at the men around him. “You see what I mean? Everything in here is hard edges. Sharp angles. Suits that look like they could cut paper. And then you show up, and you’re all...”
He flutters his hands vaguely in my direction like he’s trying to describe a feeling without having the vocabulary.
Elliot lets out a quiet laugh.
Julian’s face remains unreadable, but I catch the slightest tightness in his jaw, like he’s two seconds from telling Theo to shut up.
Theo, oblivious, continues.
“But you’re not actually soft,” he adds, eyes dropping down my body like he’s checking muscle definition. “You work out.”
I blink, stunned by the casual audacity of this man.
“Barre,” I say before I can stop myself.
Theo’s eyes light up. “Knew it. You danced.”
My throat feels dry all of a sudden.
“When I was younger.”
“Why’d you stop?” he asks, and this time the question isn’t teasing. It’s curious. Genuine.
It hits too close.
Like someone put a finger on a bruise and pressed.
That’s not a question strangers get to ask.
I force my smile back into place, the professional one, the one that holds everything together.
“Thank you,” I say smoothly, turning back to Julian before Theo can pull me into something personal. “If there are no further questions, I’ll begin coordinating with your departments immediately. You’ll have the updated run-of-show by the end of the week.”
I see Theo’s grin fade slightly, like he knows he pushed too far.
Good.
Julian stands.
That simple movement shifts the room.
“Thank you, Ms. Bennett,” he says. “This works.”
Relief flickers through me, quick and hot.
“Great,” I manage. “I’ll...”
“Send it to Rowan,” he adds, and my stomach dips again because I'm pretty sure Rowan handles security, not event planning.
Rowan nods once, as if he already expected that instruction.
Elliot rises as well. “Pleasure seeing you again, Lucy.”
Theo adds, “See you at the party,” like it’s a promise.
Caleb simply collects his briefcase and walks out.
One by one, they file out of the room, leaving behind the faint scent of expensive cologne and power.
I exhale. Okay. That wasn’t awful.
That was… strange, but manageable.
I begin gathering my things... laptop, notes, bag...
And then I realize Julian hasn’t moved.
He’s still standing near the end of the table, watching me with an expression I can’t read.
It isn’t flirtation.
It isn’t warmth.
It’s something quieter.
Focused.
Like he’s decided something, and he’s waiting to see if I notice.
My pulse ticks up, irrationally.
“Mr. North?” I ask, forcing steadiness into my voice. “Is there anything else you needed?”
His gaze holds mine.
“Yes,” he says.
Just that.
One word. Like he’s reached a conclusion.
And something in the air shifts. I still don’t know what he means.
But I know I’m not leaving yet.