Chapter 32 - Julian
The call that should have been an email runs longer than I'd planned. It’s nothing important.
Numbers. Timelines. Someone apologizing for a delay that won’t change the outcome.
I respond automatically, voice steady, mind half elsewhere.
I’ve spent my entire adult life perfecting this version of myself, the one who never hesitates, never falters, never lets personal concerns bleed into professional ones. When it ends, I don’t move.
I’m standing by the windows of my home office, jacket off, sleeves rolled, the city spread beneath me in sharp lines of light and steel. Normally, this view centers me. Normally, it reminds me why I built this life the way I did... clean, controlled, untouchable.
Tonight, it feels… different.
There’s someone else here now. The realization settles strangely, not irritation or regret, just awareness.
Lucy.
My wife.
The word still doesn’t fit smoothly in my mind. Not because I don’t want it, I do, but because it carries weight I didn’t anticipate. It implies attachment. Someone who exists here, sharing my life with me, my home. Someone who means something to me.
I turn away from the glass and head down the hall toward the bedroom.
She’ll be there, I assume. Getting ready. Changing. Taking in the reality of what today meant.
I slow outside the door.
Do I knock?
The question irritates me. This is my home.
Our home. Knocking suggests uncertainty, and uncertainty has never been my default.
But walking in unannounced feels… wrong.
Intimate in a way I don't deserve, haven't earned.
I stand there longer than necessary before opening the door.
The room is empty. The bed is untouched.
Closet lights still on from earlier. The bathroom is silent.
A faint unease curls low in my gut.
I turn back into the hall and follow instinct instead of logic, moving toward the second sitting room, the quieter one, the one that is more comfort than statement, the one overlooking the river. The room I rarely use.
That’s where I find her. She’s curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, barefoot, still wearing the sweater dress from earlier.
One sleeve is pushed up her arm, revealing soft, creamy skin.
It looks like she's been running her hand through her hair, and I wonder if that is something she does regularly; is it a tell? A reaction to stress?
Papers are spread across the coffee table, the PR folder, the contract, and another folder I recognize as Claire’s.
She’s staring out the window, not at the view, but through it. Like she’s somewhere else entirely.
I stop just inside the doorway.
I shouldn’t stare. I know that.
But something about her posture, small in a space that could swallow her whole, she doesn’t look overwhelmed. She looks like someone trying to solve a problem with no right answers.
I clear my throat. She startles just slightly and turns. “Oh,” she says, blinking like she forgot I existed for a moment. Then she smiles, apologetic and real. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”
“I thought you’d be getting ready for dinner,” I say.
She glances at the clock, then back at me. “Right. About that.”
I wait.
“Would it be okay if we ate in tonight?” she asks carefully. “Maybe order something?”
My instinctive response rises immediately. No.
Dinner out is easier. Structured. Predictable.
I open my mouth, but she cuts me off.
“We have the gala tomorrow,” she continues, gesturing lightly toward the PR folder.
“And photographs on Sunday. And before we move into… public displays of affection and expected levels of intimacy…” Her mouth quirks faintly as she scrunches up her nose.
“I thought maybe we could spend some time together. Just us. Tonight.”
I see what this is now. An offer. Not a demand.
I hesitate long enough to see her brace, just slightly, like she’s preparing to hear no.
Our 'wedding' in my office earlier flashed through my mind, the look on her face, the hurt in her eyes. I exhale.
“Okay,” I say. "That sounds like a good idea."
Her body relaxes instantly. The smile that blooms is small but genuine, like she didn’t expect the answer.
“Really?” she breathes.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” She brightens. “I can order.”
Then she laughs lightly. “Do you have any food allergies? Or things you absolutely hate?”
“No,” I say. “I eat everything.”
“That’s valuable information,” she says, already pulling out her phone.
She scrolls with focus, brow furrowing slightly. “Thai? Italian? Burgers? Oh. Sushi. Definitely sushi.”
She glances up. “You don’t strike me as a California roll guy.”
“I’m not,” I admit, trying to suppress a smile and feeling like I may lose the battle.
“Good. That would have been disappointing.”
She orders quickly, and I just know it will be too much food.
When she finishes, she looks up at me. “Why don’t we get comfortable?”
She stands and passes me, close enough that I catch her scent, clean, warm, unmistakably her, and disappears toward the bedroom.
Our bedroom.
I remain where I am, disoriented.
But somehow...
Comfortable?
What does that even mean?
I head to the bedroom a moment later and open the closet.
Suits. Shirts. Shoes. Everything is arranged with precision. I own more clothes than I need, and none of them feel right for this moment.
She reappears, having changed into a lounge set I picked out for her: a sweater and shorts.
Her long legs are bare, strong, real. She pauses when she sees me still standing there.
She cocks her head, as if studying me or trying to understand the situation, then steps closer, her gaze sweeping my side of the closet.
“Do you not own comfortable clothes?” she asks.
“I have... gym clothes,” I say.
She laughs, a real laugh, and it feels like. something is stuttering to life inside me.
I want to hear that every day.
The thought slams into me and nearly takes my breath away. I don't answer, just stand there staring, so Lucy fills in the silence.
“I meant jeans. Sweats. Loungewear... Something that doesn’t look like you might fire me.”
“I’m not firing you,” I say automatically. She has only been my wife for a few hours, and still, the thought feels unbearable. I rub at the center of my chest, trying to ease the tension.
She grins. “Good.”
“What do you wear when you’re not working or working out?” she asks.
“I’m usually working,” I admit.
She shakes her head fondly. “Okay. We’ll fix that.”
She disappears again.
I take a deep breath and pull on a pair of gray sweats and a T-shirt. It feels wrong. Vulnerable.
When I rejoin her in the main living area, the food has arrived. From what I can see so far, she ordered sushi, pad thai, dumplings, spring rolls, pizza and fries.
“You ordered for a sports team,” I observe.
She shrugs. “I haven’t had half of this in a while. And food tells you a lot about a person.”
“Such as?”
“Are they adventurous? Do you like the same thing or variety?” she says while pulling out more containers. "Are they stuck in their ways, particular... picky."
She hands me a beer and starts plating food like it’s second nature. And she talks.
About Emily. About work. About how she hates red onions but loves garlic.
About how she eats fries first because they don’t reheat well.
She talks about what it was like when they first got her mom's diagnosis, and how it felt like such a relief to finally know, but also terrifying because of what they were facing.
I find myself responding without thinking. Engaging not because it's polite but because I genuinely want to. Laughing once. Then again.
The food dwindles slowly. Not because we’re still hungry, but because neither of us seems eager for the evening to end.
Lucy sits cross-legged on the couch now, sweater sleeves pulled down over her hands, idly stealing pieces of sushi from the container between us. She eats like she’s forgotten anyone is watching, unguarded, thoughtful, occasionally humming when she likes something particularly well.
“You’re staring,” she says mildly, without looking up.
“I’m not.”
She glances at me, one eyebrow lifting. “You absolutely are.”
I don’t bother denying it again.
She smiles, small and amused, and reaches for another dumpling. “You don’t eat like someone who enjoys food.”
“I eat because it’s required.”
“That’s tragic.”
“I’m not tragic.” I argue.
She tilts her head, studying me, the gold flecks in her eyes bright. “You’re… very intense for someone in sweatpants.”
“I regret the sweatpants,” I tell her.
She laughs again, and this time it catches me completely off guard, bright and unfiltered, the sound echoing in the sitting room. I instinctively want to lean into it, like my body recognizes that sound before my mind does.
We clean up together, wordlessly. She insists on stacking containers. I insist on handling the trash. We nearly collide at the counter, and the proximity sends a sharp awareness through me, her warmth, the faint scent of soap and citrus, the way she smells different without makeup and perfume.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, stepping back.
“Don’t be.”
The silence afterward is not uncomfortable.
It’s… curious.
Eventually, she yawns, covering her mouth quickly, like she’s embarrassed by the intimacy of it.
“I should probably get ready for bed,” she says.
“Yes,” I agree, far too quickly.
She pauses, then hesitates. “Is that… okay?”
The question shouldn’t hurt the way it does.
“Of course it is,” I say.
She nods, but I can tell she still feels like she’s crossing a line.
She heads toward the bedroom. I give her a few minutes before following, unsure of the choreography here, unsure of what version of myself I’m supposed to be.
The bedroom lights are dimmer when I enter.
She’s standing near the dresser, pulling her hair out of its loose tie, fingers combing through it until it falls freely down her back. The movement exposes the line of her neck.
I stop short.
She glances at me in the mirror. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
I nod, retreating like a man who suddenly realizes he will be sharing a bed with a woman he barely knows.
Inside the bathroom, I wash my hands longer than necessary, staring at my reflection like it might explain something to me. This is not how this was supposed to feel.
When I return, she’s already in bed, propped up against the headboard with a book she clearly isn’t reading. The lamp beside her casts her in golden light, all edges blurred.
I move carefully, turning off the main lights, leaving only the lamps. I slide under the covers, keeping space between us. Not out of disinterest... out of restraint. Respect.
She turns onto her side, facing me.
“Is this… okay?” she asks quietly.
“Yes,” I say again, and this time my voice is lower, raspy.
She studies my face for a moment, like she’s memorizing me in the moment, dressed down, unguarded, human.
“Goodnight, Julian.”
“Goodnight, Lucy.”
The quiet settles.
Her breathing slows first.
I remain awake, staring at the ceiling, hyperaware of every sensation, the weight of the covers, the warmth of her body nearby, the fact that there is another person in my bed and instead of feeling invaded, I feel… anchored.
Eventually, I turn onto my side.
Her hair has spilled across the pillow, waves framing her face. Her freckles stand out more now, scattered across her cheeks and nose like constellations. There’s a faint scar near her collarbone, old, thin, easy to miss unless you’re looking for reasons to see her as real.
I wonder how she got it.
Her hand twitches slightly in her sleep, fingers curling as if reaching for something.
I resist the instinct to close the distance. Resist the urge to put my hand in hers.
This isn’t about possession.
This is about learning.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper into the dark. “But I will try.”
The words don’t feel like a promise.
They feel like a confession.