Chapter 12 - Lucy
Claire calls just after two. I’m at my office after visiting some of the vendors for the Northwell Event, with my laptop open, answering emails and finalizing inquiries like nothing in my life is currently tilting on its axis.
“Ms. Bennett,” she says, calm and precise. “This is Claire. Mr. North’s executive assistant.”
My spine straightens automatically. Not fear, awareness.
Because that whole interaction this morning has me feeling off.
“Yes,” I say.
“He asked me to confirm dinner this evening. Seven thirty. I’ve sent the address to your email.” A brief pause. “We can arrange a car if you’d like.”
I glance at the clock on my screen, then at the half-packed notes scattered across the table. “No, thank you. I’ll make my own way.”
“Of course,” she replies smoothly. “He is eager to meet with you this evening.”
When the call ends, I don’t move for a long moment.
Dinner.
Not a meeting. Not a follow-up. Not something that belongs neatly in a calendar box with bullet points and outcomes.
A conversation, he’d said.
A proposition.
Something about my mother.
I don't know what to expect, but it feels far too close to hope, which immediately sets off alarm bells. Hope is expensive. Hope is reckless. Hope is how you end up disappointed with nothing to show for it.
I close my laptop and gather my things.
I call and check in on mom. Then I call and make sure Em will be home, and then after moving some things around and deciding I can walk more and take fewer taxis, I send her money so they can get takeout tonight. Hoping maybe one of mom's favourite foods will lift her mood.
I work right up until the last possible second, answering emails, reviewing staffing proposals, making myself useful because usefulness is what keeps me upright when uncertainty starts to creep in.
By the time I leave the building, it’s already dusk.
I didn't have the two-plus hours to go home and back before dinner. Instead, I ducked into the office bathroom and did what I could.
I took my hair down from the low bun it had been trapped in all day and ran my fingers through it until it looked presentable.
It’s not styled, but it’s me. I smoothed the front of my dress, checking for creases from sitting all day.
There’s a faint coffee mark near the hem that I pretend I don’t see.
I reapply my lipstick, the good one. The one that makes me feel like I know what I’m doing even when I don’t.
I look at myself in the mirror.
I don’t look like someone going to dinner with a billionaire.
I look like someone who worked a full day and then agreed to something she doesn’t fully understand.
That will have to be enough.
Because I don't know how to be anything else right now.
The restaurant feels like a secret.
Not hidden, just intentionally quiet, tucked away from the noise of the city, like it exists for people who don’t want to be seen.
Candlelight glows against dark wood. The music is soft enough that it doesn’t interrupt thought.
There are other diners, but they’re spaced far apart, voices low, conversations barely a background thought.
Julian North chose this place on purpose.
But why?
He stands when I approach the table, jacket off, sleeves rolled just enough to feel disarming without actually being casual. The chair he pulls out for me is deliberate. Polite. Controlled.
Everything about him is deliberate.
This close to him, I can smell his cologne; it is warmer than I would have imagined. He smells clean, masculine, but somehow understated. A scent I knew I had never smelled before, but somehow made me feel at home.
“Lucy,” he says in a tone I have not heard before.
He doesn’t sound like a man about to negotiate.
He sounds like a man about to get to know someone.
We ordered wine. He doesn’t choose for me, he waits, watches, lets me decide. That shouldn’t matter, but it does. I notice it anyway. I notice everything tonight.
For the first few minutes, we talk about nothing.
Not work. Not Northwell. Not events or timelines or deliverables.
The weather. The restaurant. How long it’s been open. The way Chicago changes personalities depending on the season.
It’s… easy.
Too easy.
“So,” he says finally, resting his forearms lightly on the table, attention fully on me. “How did you end up in event planning?”
I blink. The question catches me off guard, and so does the weight of his attention.
“I sort of fell into it,” I admit. “I needed flexible work when my mom got sick. Something I could scale up when things were good and pull back when they weren’t.”
“And you stayed,” he observes.
“I stayed because I’m good at it,” I say, a little defensive without meaning to be. “And because I like being a part of things that bring people together.”
His mouth curves slightly. “You like control.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “I like preparation. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” he asks, not challenging, curious.
I consider it. “Maybe not.”
He nods, like that answer confirms something.
“What about before that?” he asks. “Before your mother was sick.”
I hesitate. Not because it’s painful, but because no one ever asks.
“I danced,” I say finally. “Ballet. Contemporary. A little modern. I hadn't decided what I wanted to do with my life, and I thought I had time..." I take a sip of my wine and give myself a minute. "I wanted to travel. See the world, figure out who I was.”
“That explains the posture,” he says calmly.
My heart stutters. “I... what?”
“You hold your body like someone trained not to waste movement,” he replies. “Like balance is second nature. Like you have control over every inch of you.”
I stare at him, at the sharp lines of his jaw, his high cheekbones, almond eyes, the perfectly straight line of a nose that has never been broken. “Do you say unsettling things on purpose, or is that just a talent?”
A flicker of something like amusement crosses his face. “Occupational hazard.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “I stopped dancing before we moved to Chicago.”
He doesn’t ask me to elaborate.
That, too, feels intentional.
“What about your sister?” he asks instead. “Emily.”
It should feel unnerving that he knows so much about me. I can't imagine this is the typical background check they run on all contract employees. But something in me has loosened since sitting with Julian. My shoulders relax without permission, and I find myself wanting to answer him.
“She’s in med school,” I say, pride warming my voice. “First year. Northwestern.”
“Impressive.”
“She’s brilliant,” I say, with fondness. “And stubborn. And determined to fix things she shouldn’t feel responsible for.”
“Like you,” he says quietly.
I still.
The comment isn’t accusatory. It isn’t patronizing.
It’s observant.
My eyes lock with his, and this close, I can see they are not blue but a steel grey.
“She wants to specialize in autoimmune diseases,” I continue, because now I’m talking and I’m not sure how to stop. “She says if she’s going to spend her life watching our mom suffer, she might as well do something about it.”
Julian listens without interruption. No judgment. No commentary.
It feels like being held in attention instead of evaluated.
“And your mother?” he asks gently.
I hesitate again. This time, the question feels too personal.
“She’s… tired,” I say honestly. “But she still laughs. She still tells terrible jokes. She still apologizes for things that aren’t her fault.”
His jaw ticks slightly at that.
I don’t miss it.
For a moment, the table feels warm, safe... almost romantic.
This feels like a date.
Not the dramatic, sweeping kind. The quiet, way where you start imagining things you shouldn’t.
Julian takes a sip of wine and sets the glass down carefully.
“Lucy,” he says.
The shift is immediate.
The warmth recedes.
“I need to be clear about why I asked you here tonight.”
My pulse spikes.
“I want to start by saying, this is a conversation,” he continues. “Not pressure.”
The words sound reasonable. Controlled. Practiced.
But why?
“I have a situation,” he says. “One that requires stability. Visibility. Alignment.”
The language is colder now. Familiar. Corporate.
“You have a situation as well,” he adds. “One that requires resources, access, and time.”
My stomach drops.
“I’m proposing a solution that addresses both.”
I already know what’s coming. But that can't be right. This isn't...
“I’m asking you to consider a marriage of convenience.”
The room tilts.
Marriage.
Marriage?
A... contractual marriage...
He doesn’t rush, doesn’t dilute it, doesn’t pretend it’s anything other than what it is.
“Structured. Contractual. Exclusive,” he says. “Public-facing.”
I stare at him, searching for the punchline that never comes.
“You would have full financial security,” he continues. “Healthcare access. Housing. Privacy protections.”
I feel hot now. Not flustered... angry.
“You would not be required to feel anything,” he adds. “Only to participate.”
I push my chair back slightly.
Participate?
“And what,” I ask carefully, “do you get?”
“Stability,” he says. “Optics. A Wife. An heir.”
I feel like I have swallowed sand. I take a much bigger sip of wine and ask, "You want me to give you an heir? "
Julian leans back in his chair, as if to get comfortable, settling in for a typical conversation.
"Preferably more than one. Two to three would be ideal; however, with your age, they would have to be conceived closely together."
My hands shake, so I move them to my lap to hide what I feel bubbling up within me.
"So let me get this clear.... You want me to marry you, but I don't have to have any feelings towards you... I just need to be married to you in every sense of the word and participate in having children with you?"
A look passes over Julian's face that I cannot read; I am not even sure if he understands what it is. Like, he doesn't like how I am interpreting his offer.
I don't wait for an answer, because my anger and pride are warring for center stage in me right now.
“You didn’t invite me to dinner,” I say, voice tight but steady. “You invited me to trick me into feeling safe.”
His gaze sharpens.
“And then,” I continue, heart pounding, “you asked me to sell myself.”
“That’s not how I see it.”
“Of course it isn’t,” I say. “You don’t feel the ground shift when the rules change. You’re the one with all the leverage. With all the control.”
I shake my head, disbelief bleeding into anger.
“I don’t intend to coerce you.”
“You already did,” I say, heat rising now. “You brought up my mother. You mentioned her care to get me here. You made this feel personal.”
“It is personal,” he replies.
“No,” I say. “It’s strategic.”
Silence stretches between us.
The waiter approaches instinctively. Julian lifts a hand, dismissing him without breaking eye contact with me.
“I am not for sale,” I continue, heart pounding now. “Not as a wife. Not as a solution. Not an unfeeling participant in having your children.”
“That’s not...”
I stand on shaky legs, trying my hardest not to make a scene, but feeling like I need to run, get out of here.
“You don’t get to decide what I can live with,” I interrupt. “Or what I should sacrifice because my life is harder than yours.”
He stands, too, but he doesn’t block me. Doesn’t reach out.
“I’m offering security.”
“You’re offering control,” I counter. “Wrapped in the illusion of kindness.”
I pick up my bag.
“You picked the wrong woman,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t stop me.
That almost hurts more.
I walk out without looking back, heart racing, lungs tight, the echo of candlelight and music following me into the cold night.
But my heart doesn’t slow down until I’m three blocks away, standing under a streetlight, breathing cold air into lungs that feel too tight.
I don’t know what scares me more.
That he thought this would work.
Or that for one terrifying second, a part of me wondered what it would feel like if it did.