Chapter 15 - Lucy
The knocking pulls me out of sleep like a hand around my wrist.
Sharp. Insistent. Too loud.
I jolt upright on the couch, heart racing, disoriented for half a second before memory crashes back in all at once, Mom’s pain, the clock ticking toward her next dose, the way I’d sat there counting minutes like they were currency.
The knocking comes again.
I groan and glance toward the hallway. The bathroom door is closed. Mom must be up and moving. I hope that is a good sign.
“Who the hell is knocking this early?” Emily mutters from the armchair, face buried in a throw blanket. “If that’s a landlord, I’m pretending to be dead.”
“Please be dead quieter,” I whisper, already standing.
I stand on unsteady legs. I don't even remember falling asleep last night. I sat on the couch with mom, rubbing circles on her back while I felt her breathing soften as the pain eased and then...
The knocking grows firmer.
Seriously?
I wince. “I’m coming.”
I glance down at myself, in sleep shorts, a tank top, hair tangled, and grab the oversized cardigan hanging by the door, shrugging it on as I stumble forward.
I crack the door open, keeping most of it between me and whoever is at the door.
A woman stands there, posture impeccable, dark coat tailored, hair pulled back into a low chignon. My eyes land on a face that looks like it’s never known sleep deprivation.
For a second, I think I’m still dreaming.
“Yes?” I ask cautiously.
“Lucy Bennett?” she asks.
“Yes?” I repeat.
She offers a polite smile. “I’m Claire. Mr. North’s executive assistant.”
My stomach drops.
“Oh,” I say, the word tumbling out of my mouth. “Hi.”
Her gaze flicks briefly around me, not intrusive, just observant. “Mr. North heard you’d be working from home today. He wanted to ensure you had everything you needed to complete the project.”
I blink. “I... what?”
“May I come in?” she asks gently.
I hesitate, then step back, opening the door fully, because refusing feels rude, and I’m too tired to navigate whatever this is at the door.
“Sure.”
She steps inside, heels silent on the floor, and gestures over her shoulder.
Two men appear, carrying boxes. Then another. Then bags.
I blink as if trying to make what I am seeing make sense in my head.
But... nope.
They start setting them down in the dining area, like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Those can go...” I start, then stop as they walk past me... Into the kitchen.
“Wait,” I say, following. “What are...”
Emily appears in the doorway, hair wild, eyes half-lidded, squinting at the scene. “What the fuck is happening? Am I hallucinating?”
Claire turns smoothly. “Good morning, Emily.”
Emily blinks, a look of pure confusion on her face. “Morning?”
My mom emerges slowly behind her, wrapped in a robe, one hand braced against the wall. Her face looks hollow, eyes tired.
Everything in me becomes hyper aware.
“Mom,” I say immediately. “Why don't you go get comfortable on the couch, and I’ll bring you tea.”
Her gaze moves to the boxes. The bags. The strangers in our kitchen.
“Who is this?” she asks quietly.
Emily answers before I can. “I think our LuLu caught herself a suitor.”
“I did not...” I start. My eyes flash to Claire, unsure if she knows about what Julian had approached me with.
Claire steps in calmly. “Good morning, Ms. Bennett. Mr. North was concerned when he heard that you were under the weather and that Lucy was staying home today. He wanted to make sure Lucy was taking care of herself while caring for you.”
Emily doesn’t question it; she is apparently already on board with this plan. She moves straight into the kitchen, peering into the bags.
“Oh my god,” she breathes. “Lu... Look at this.”
I stay frozen by the counter.
Emily pulls out produce. Containers. Specialty items.
“Organic berries,” she murmurs. “Wild-caught salmon. Bone broth. Turmeric. Ginger...”
She stops, and then she spins, looks at Claire.
“This is all anti-inflammatory,” she says slowly. “This is…” Her eyes drift to Mom before snapping back to Claire. "This is a specialty diet."
Claire nods once. “Yes.”
My throat closes. I turn away before anyone can see my face, because I don't know if I can control the tears that try to fall or the guilt that is bubbling up within me.
“This is too much,” I say, forcing steadiness. “Please tell Mr. North I appreciate the thought, but I can’t accept this. Just... tell me how much it costs. I’ll reimburse him.”
Claire meets my eyes.
“He won’t accept that,” she says simply.
“That’s not...”
“Please,” she interrupts gently. “Let him do this. It really is important to him.”
Her eyes are pleading, and the look she is giving me makes my lower lip wobble.
Emily keeps unloading groceries like she’s afraid they’ll vanish if she stops.
Mom sits at the table, watching me.
Quietly.
Intently.
I busy myself with the kettle. With mugs. With anything that keeps my hands occupied.
Emily leans in close. “This is not nothing,” she whispers. “This is… real... thoughtful.”
I swallow.
When I bring Mom her tea and sourdough toast, she takes it carefully, studying me over the rim of her mug.
“Who is Mr. North?” she asks, her voice thin.
Emily grins. “Tall. Rich. Emotionally constipated. Clearly into Lucy.”
“Emily,” I warn.
I swear I hear a sound that resembles a choked laugh coming from Claire.
“What?” she says. “He sends groceries. That’s courtship in this economy.”
Mom smiles faintly. “Does he make you happy?”
The question feels heavier than it should.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
Claire watches the exchange with quiet respect.
“Please let us know if you need anything else,” she says. She steps up beside me and places a gentle hand on my arm. “Anything, Lucy. He wants to help.”
When she leaves, the apartment feels fuller than it has in years.
And somehow emptier.
I stand in the kitchen, surrounded by abundance I didn’t ask for, didn’t earn, didn’t plan for.
Emily bumps my shoulder. “You look like you’re about to cry.”
“I might be,” I admit.
“Because you feel like you’re being bought?” she asks gently.
“Or because someone noticed I was drowning and threw me a lifeline,” I whisper.
I don’t know which scares me more.
I stare at the counter, at the care laid out so neatly it feels intentional.
Calculated but kind.
And somewhere deep within, something I’ve been carrying alone for so long shifts... just a little.
Enough to make me wonder if this is what it feels like when help arrives.
Or when a line quietly blurs.