Chapter 31 - Lucy
The doors open directly into the penthouse. There isn't a hallway or other apartments on this floor. No buffer, just space.
Glass and stone and light pouring in like the city has been invited inside and decided to stay. Chicago stretches beneath the windows, vast and glittering, the lake dark and endless beyond it. It looks unreal from up here, like a postcard version of a place I’ve lived at ground level.
Claire steps aside to let me walk in first. The gesture feels ceremonial.
My heels click against the floor, the sound too small for a space this large. The penthouse doesn’t echo; it absorbs. Everything here feels designed to contain you, to make sure nothing ever feels out of control.
I stop without meaning to. This is not an apartment; this is a statement.
But for who?
Claire waits patiently while I take it in, like she knows better than to rush this part.
“This will be your primary residence,” she says gently. “Security access will be updated within the hour. You’ll have full clearance, fingerprint, code, and concierge authorization. No need to sign in or be announced.”
She gestures toward a discreet panel near the door. “The building staff has been notified. You’re listed as a permanent resident effective immediately. They have been instructed that, as Julian's wife, you are to be addressed as Mrs. North.”
Effective immediately.
Julian's Wife.
Mrs. North.
The words stack on top of each other until they start to feel heavy.
Claire moves forward, guiding me deeper into the space.
The living area opens wide, with seating arranged to face the windows rather than a television, as if the city itself is the entertainment.
Everything is pristine, expensive, untouched.
I don’t see personal clutter. No photographs.
No warmth. A space that serves a function no more.
Kind of like me.
I blink back the tears threatening to fall and push the intrusive thoughts away.
“This is the main entertaining area,” Claire explains. “Julian rarely hosts, but when he does, it’s typically business-related.”
I nod, even though my mind keeps snagging on the absence of him in the space.
We pass through the kitchen next.
It’s immaculate. Stainless steel, marble, and custom cabinetry that hides everything behind clean lines. It looks like a place where meals are prepared, not eaten.
“There’s a private chef who prepares meals in advance,” Claire continues. “He can also come in to cook fresh meals on request. Or we can adjust deliveries if you prefer. I have notified him that he will be cooking for you as well, and he will reach out to discuss your preferred diet.”
Claire hands me a slim folder and a card. “Contact numbers. Housekeeping. Security. Building management. I’m listed first. The card is linked to your personal account; details are in the folder as well.”
I take it automatically, adding it to the folders I already carry, my fingers brushing the edge, as it might anchor me. I don't even think I am fully processing everything today, so the folders are actually helpful.
We move down a hallway that feels longer than it should, art lining the walls, abstract, expensive, probably chosen because it doesn’t ask anything of the viewer. Doors branch off to a study, several guest suite's, a second sitting room, Julian's office, a library...
I walk feeling vaguely numb, trying to take everything in.
Then Claire stops.
“This is the primary bedroom.”
She opens the doors, and the room is expansive but not cold. The bed dominates the space, crisp and architectural, dressed in linens that look too perfect to disturb. The windows here feel closer, like the city is leaning in to watch.
I step inside, my pulse loud in my ears.
“And through here,” Claire says, gesturing toward an open doorway, “is the dressing room and bath.”
Dressing room, not closet.
I am about to question it until I walk in... and stop.
Holy shit.
The space is massive. Floor-to-ceiling shelving. Custom lighting. Mirrors that make everything look sharper, more deliberate.
And then I see the clothes.
Not Julian's... but everything that occupies the opposite of his.
Not a few pieces, but an entire wardrobe has been selected for me.
Gowns. Dresses. Tailored coats. Structured blazers.
Silk blouses. Cashmere knits. Loungewear folded with surgical precision.
Everything is organized by colour, fabric, and season.
Shoes line the lower shelves, heels with red soles, sculptural stilettos, boots that cost more than my yearly rent.
Handbags displayed like art. Jewelry laid out in velvet-lined drawers: diamonds, gold, pieces that glitter quietly, confidently.
This wasn’t shopping.
This is curation.
This is someone deciding who I am allowed to be.
I feel panic bubbling up from deep within me. I rub my collarbone, then tug at my sleeves, trying to ease the feeling.
Claire watches my face carefully. “Julian asked that your wardrobe be… comprehensive. You’re welcome to adjust anything. Remove what doesn’t suit you. Add what does.”
I laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “This is… a lot.”
She smiles, sympathetic, not defensive. “Yes. It is. He also said that if you were not a fan of the personal shopper he selected for you, you could select your own.”
Personal shopper? Why... what?
She keeps moving, and I keep wondering how I got here.
I follow Claire out of the clos... dressing room.
The bathroom is no less overwhelming. Marble, glass, and gold fixtures.
A vanity stocked not with what I use, but with elevated versions of it.
Designer skincare. Luxury makeup. Products I recognize only from magazines.
Nothing here is accidental.
Nothing here is cheap.
Nothing here belongs to the girl who budgeted groceries and counted pills and skipped meals so her sister wouldn’t have to.
This is your life now.
The thought lands hard and fast, stealing my breath.
We step back into the bedroom. I stand there, surrounded by wealth so vast it feels like a physical force, when I feel it.
Him.
Not footsteps.
Not sound.
Just presence.
I turn, and Julian stands in the doorway.
His jacket is gone, shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing corded forearms. His tie is loosened like he was tugging on it since he left the office. His usually perfectly styled dark hair looks wild. He looks… undone. Like the day has taken something from him.
“Thank you, Claire,” he says evenly. “I can take it from here.”
She nods. “Of course.”
Then, to me, warm, steady, “If you need anything at all, Mrs. North, please call.”
Mrs. North.
The words continue to weigh me down in this space, surrounded by proof.
Claire leaves quietly, closing the door behind her, as Julian steps further into the room.
The energy in the room changes instantly.
Julian steps closer, his gaze moving over me slowly, not assessing... checking. Like he’s making sure I’m still in this with him.
“I wanted you settled,” he says. “Comfortable.”
Comfortable.
I almost laugh.
“It’s… impressive,” I say instead.
His mouth curves faintly. “That’s one word for it.”
I grip the edge of the dresser behind me, grounding myself. “Claire’s very… thorough.”
“She is,” he agrees.
We stand there, close but not touching, the space between us thick with everything we’re not saying. My gaze drifts back to the closet. The dresses. The jewelry. The life already laid out for me.
“This doesn’t feel real,” I admit quietly.
His expression gentles, just enough to notice. “It will.”
He is not offering comfort or reassurance. He says it like it's a reality I need to adjust to.
I inhale slowly. “Where… do you want me?”
The words are practical. No... the words come out of me because I don't know what I am doing. The way his eyes darken tells me he heard something else.
“This is your home,” he says carefully. “You don’t need permission to do anything.”
I nod, but I still don’t move. Still don't trust it.
He watches me, something unreadable tightening in his jaw. Then he speaks again, gentler. “I’ll give you time. I have a call to make. But please make yourself comfortable... I would like to take you to dinner later.”
He pauses at the door.
“Lucy,” he says, “We’ll find a balance.”
I don't know if he is trying to convince him or me.
The door closes behind him.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the weight of the room pressing in on me, and finally let my breath shake. Finally, start to process what just happened,
I’m married.
I’m protected.
I’ve stepped into a life so far removed from my own that it feels like trespassing.
And underneath the fear, the guilt, the disbelief, there’s something else.
A quiet, worrisome thought I don’t know what to do with yet.
What if this changes everything? Changes me?