Chapter 17 - Julian
The ma?tre d’ leads me to a table that’s been set with precision, exactly enough distance to feel private, exactly enough visibility to signal status. Northwell’s usual dining room, as Caleb once called it. A place for deals that needed quiet.
Caleb Mercer is already seated, jacket draped perfectly over the back of his chair, hands folded as if he’s been waiting for me for hours instead of seven minutes.
“You’re late,” he says, tone flat.
“I’m never late.”
I sit across from him and loosen my tie, letting out a sigh from the week behind me.
The waiter appears.
Caleb already has a scotch in front of him. I ordered the same and added sparkling water because a clear head is an asset. And tonight, I don’t trust mine.
Caleb watches the server leave and then studies me the way he studies numbers, without emotion, with intent.
“You asked Rowan for a full report,” he says. "You have been digging into the pretty dancer."
I try to control the urge to growl, a reaction that is foreign to me.
I don’t bother denying it. “I asked Rowan to do his job.”
Caleb’s mouth twitches, the closest he gets to amusement. “And are you continuing to use the information even after she declined?”
I take a slow breath. “When have you known me to walk away from a negotiation?”
“You spooked her.”
“I underestimated her pride,” I say, and my tone is too calm for a statement that should irritate me.
Caleb tips his glass slightly, like he’s acknowledging a point made in a meeting. “You underestimated her.”
Damn him, but it is true. I saw her at face value, in the details of her file, and I underestimated the person built from those facts, those events. I should feel rejected. That would be simpler. Cleaner. A bruise I could heal and move on from.
Instead, I feel… outplayed?
Not in strategy. Not in intellect.
In something unfamiliar.
In the fact that she walked away without needing to win. Without needing to take anything from me. Without even trying to negotiate.
It’s the first time in a long time I’ve watched someone refuse a solution they needed.
Which means she didn’t see it as a solution at all.
I don't know what to make of that.
The scotch arrives. I take one sip. The burn steadies me, but it doesn’t erase the image of her eyes, brown with flecks of gold, bright as struck flint when she got angry.
She’d looked… alive. Like, there is a fire within her that has been extinguished for far too long.
The thought is intrusive, out of character for me.
Caleb’s gaze flicks down, then back up. “What’s next?”
I don’t answer immediately. Because there are two answers.
The logical one: revise approach, reduce pressure, rebuild trust, offer terms more gradually.
The other is a sensation I don’t yet have a name for. A tightening, low and possessive, every time I picture her walking away from me and out into the night like she belonged to no one. Like she could belong to someone else.
No one takes care of Lucy Bennett.
And that should not matter to me.
But it does.
Before I can respond, a shadow falls across the table.
I look up and school my expression.
Richard North doesn’t ask permission. He never has.
My father stands there with a faint smile that isn’t warmth or pleasant, as if the world were an arrangement he’d already signed.
“Julian,” he says, then glances at Caleb. “Mercer.”
Caleb’s expression remains neutral, but his shoulders shift, an almost imperceptible tightening.
“Mr. North,” he replies.
My father pulls out a chair like he owns the restaurant as much as he owns every room he enters, and he sits. The perfect picture of entitlement dressed in tailored wool.
Caleb’s gaze flicks to me, a silent question: Are you going to allow this?
I keep my face calm because if I don’t, my father wins.
“I didn’t realize you were joining us,” I say.
“I wasn’t invited,” he replies smoothly. “But I heard you were here.”
He lifts his hand, and the waiter appears like a summoned servant.
“Bring me what you brought them, and the wine menu,” Richard says, then turns his attention back to me. “I saw the photos.”
I fight back a retort, for the first time in a long time, I feel like I may not have the patience to deal with my father. I choke down my irritation and take a sip. “What photos?”
He smiles faintly. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Feigned stupidity doesn't suit you. The girl, Julian.”
Lucy.
“The press appears to be enamoured with her. The pictures of you two at dinner seem to have emboldened them to keep track of her,” he continues, voice conversational.
“She got into your car not long ago, Julian, your car, your driver, waiting for her outside her place of work. Like it was a normal occurrence. That’s a statement, Julian. ”
I don’t respond. Because the first thing I feel isn’t irritation.
It’s satisfaction.
The press is curious.
They’re sniffing around.
They’re speculating.
And the uncomfortable truth is that it’s working out better than I planned, except I didn’t plan it. Not fully. Not like this.
And because she got into my car, I hadn't checked in with Tom to see if she accepted this offering. But to hear that she did...
Richard watches me with that cold, exacting focus he used when I was twelve and made the mistake of thinking praise might be possible.
“You can’t keep hiding,” he says. “You can’t keep being invisible.”
“I’m not invisible,” I reply. “I’m private.”
“Privacy is a luxury,” he corrects. “Legacy is a responsibility.”
Caleb’s glass clinks as he sets it down. “We were in the middle of dinner.”
Richard doesn’t even look at him. “Then you won’t mind if I make efficient use of my son’s time.”
His gaze returns to me. “Did you review the folder?”
There it is again, that folder. I need to remember to dispose of it.
The women with curated biographies, bloodlines, and medical histories. Suitable options. Acceptable accessories.
My stomach turns, sharp and sudden.
“I don’t need to,” I say.
Richard’s eyes narrow. “You don’t need to?”
“I’ve made a selection,” I answer evenly.
His smile widens by a fraction, predatory in its satisfaction. “Then you’ve tried her.”
The words hit the table like a slap. Caleb’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes go colder.
Something inside me goes still, like something is deciding whether of not to come to the surface.
My father doesn’t understand what he’s touching. Not Lucy. Not me. Not the fact that this, this crude reduction of her into something purchasable, makes heat rise under my skin and it has nothing to do with pride.
“I haven’t,” I say, voice flat.
“Then you should,” he replies, as if discussing wine pairings. “Before you commit publicly. Once you make it official, you’ll have to behave. The public needs to believe you’re faithful.”
I hold my tongue. I don’t mention the loyalty clause I’d already written. I don’t mention exclusivity. I don’t mention that my contract would bind me as much as her, because my father would see that as weakness.
Instead, I take a slow sip of scotch and keep my face composed.
Richard leans back, satisfied with himself. “She looks great in a suit. I can only imagine what is underneath all those layers. I understand why you chose her.”
I should be numb to the way he speaks about women. I grew up with it. Learned from it. Built my walls out of it.
But Lucy makes it different.
Because I’ve seen her. I’ve heard her laugh. I’ve watched her fuel her family from her own exhaustion. She is not an accessory. And the fact that I care about that distinction is… alarming.
A chair scrapes beside me.
Theo drops into it like a man who wasn’t invited but showed up anyway because rules are a suggestion to him.
“Sorry,” he says cheerfully. “Traffic was a nightmare.”
Richard’s eyes harden. “Traffic is always your excuse.”
Theo smiles as if his spine isn’t made of old bruises. “Good thing I wasn’t asking for forgiveness.”
He glances around the table, then looks at me.
His grin falters.
Just slightly.
That’s new.
Theo studies me for a beat longer than normal. Not teasing. Not performing. Just… watching.
“What,” I ask, sharp enough to snap him out of it. “Are you going to make a joke?”
Theo’s gaze flicks to my father, then back to me.
“No,” he says quietly.
That single word lands harder than any joke would have.
Richard scoffs. “That’s a first.”
Theo ignores him. His attention stays on me like he’s trying to solve something without asking questions.
Caleb cuts through the tension with surgical precision. “What do you think about Lucy?”
Theo’s mouth quirks. "She is different."
“And?” Caleb prompts.
Theo leans back, crossing his arms. He looks too relaxed, but his eyes are sharp.
“I like her. She didn't care that she was in a room full of billionaires,” he says with a smile. "She is someone who treats everyone as equals, no matter their status."
Richard laughs once. “That doesn't make her special. Just means Julian has his work cut out for him.”
Theo’s smile fades. His gaze goes dark, and for a moment, he looks less like the reckless younger brother and more like a man who understands exactly what my father costs people.
Then he turns back to me.
“You didn’t like hearing her say no,” he says, conversational, as if we’re discussing sports.
I stare at him.
Theo lifts a brow. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re loud when you’re quiet, Julian.”
Caleb’s mouth twitches again.
Richard watches me with interest, like he’s enjoying the show.
Theo continues, voice warmer now. “You were going to win. You were sure you were going to win. And she didn’t even fight you. She just… walked.”
My fingers tighten around my glass.
Yes.
That’s exactly it.
Richard smiles faintly. “Then she needs to be reminded what she stands to lose and who is in charge.”
Theo’s head turns, slow, and the air in the space sharpens.
“Careful,” Theo says.
It's as if the room holds its breath.
Richard’s eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
Theo’s smile returns, but it’s cold. “You heard me.”
Silence stretches.
My father does not like being challenged. Not by anyone. Especially not his sons.
I expect him to lash out.
Instead, he looks back at me.
“Is she worth this?” he asks, voice smooth as oil. “Worth your brother getting brave?”
I don’t answer right away.
Because the truth is inconvenient.
Lucy Bennett shouldn’t matter to me.
But she does.
Not because I want her.
Not because I need her.
Because she touched something in me that has been dormant so long, I forgot it existed.
Protectiveness.
I think of Claire’s voice, sharp and rare with emotion when she returned from Lucy’s apartment:
Don’t screw around with her, Mr. North. She’s carrying too much already.
I’d dismissed it at the time.
I don’t dismiss it now.
I set my glass down.
“I’m bringing her tomorrow,” I say.
Theo’s eyes widen slightly. “Oh.”
Caleb leans in, interest sharpening. “Where?”
“The foundation gala,” I answer. “High profile. Controlled environment.”
Richard’s smile returns, pleased. “Good.”
Theo’s gaze cuts to me, sharp. “That’s not why you’re doing it.”
I keep my face neutral, but I am feeling anything but. “It’s exactly why.”
Theo shakes his head once, slowly. “Sure.”
Caleb’s voice is quiet. “A soft launch?”
I nod.
If the press is already circling, visibility is containment. A public storyline protects her. Protects Northwell. Protects me from my father turning her into a target.
It’s strategic.
It must be strategic.
Because the other truth, the one pulsing under my skin, is that I want the world to see her and understand, without question, that she is not available.
Not to my father’s folder.
Not to speculation.
Not to anyone.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out, thumb hovering.
Caleb watches me like he’s watching a stock price shift.
Theo watches me like he’s watching something unbelievable.
Richard watches me like he’s watching an investment.
I swipe through, find what I am looking for and type one line.
Me: Are you free tomorrow night?
I stare at the screen after I hit send.
Waiting is not something I do.
Waiting is vulnerability.
And yet I sit there, pulse steady, jaw tight, eyes fixed on a device like it holds the answer to something I’m not prepared to admit I want.
Theo leans in slightly, voice low. “This is the part where you pretend you don’t care.”
I don’t look at him.
“I don’t care,” I say.
Theo’s laugh is soft. Almost fond. Almost sad.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what scares me.”
My phone buzzes.
One message.
Lucy Bennett: Yes.
For a fraction of a second, something like relief spreads through me, warm and unfamiliar.
And then, like a man regaining control after a stumble, I lock it down.
I lift my glass and take a sip.
This isn’t romance.
This is a deal.
A timeline.
A strategy.
Lucy Bennett will be Mrs. North.
And if anyone thinks they can treat her like an accessory…
They’re going to learn what it costs to take something from me.