Chapter 34 - Lucy
As the car approaches the entrance to the event, I can feel my anxiety ramp up.
Last night, this morning... all day really has felt different than I expected.
And I honestly wasn't sure what living with Julian, being his wife, would be like.
It has been a peaceful, kind of wonderful.
And that is part of the anxiety, I don't know how many versions of Julian I have met.
I'm not foolish enough to think that he has a version of him just for me.
So as our car moves into the line for the entrance, I can feel my stomach roll.
Because I remember exactly how our first event went. The gala where I was pushed aside and ignored. He promised me it would never happen again, but still....
And this time, there is so much more on the line, because now I belong to him.
Not in the romantic, soft-focus way my mother thinks of when she looks at my rings and smiles like she’s watching a love story unfold.
In the legal way.
In the your name is attached to mine in public way.
In the people will decide what kind of wife I am before I even open my mouth way.
Julian exits without a word as soon as the car stops, and before I consider it, my door is open, and his hand is reaching for mine. Camera's flash as I step out, and like we've done this a million times before, Julian tucks me in his side in what feels surprisingly protective.
The night air is sharp, Chicago fall doing what it does best, biting at your ankles and slipping down the back of your collar like a reminder that warmth is never guaranteed.
A historic building downtown, all stone columns and carved detail, with valet lines and security and a carpet that isn’t red so much as the colour of expensive wine. Cameras continue to flash in the distance.
I tense automatically.
Julian’s hand presses once at my side, gentle.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, so low it’s only for me.
I do.
I try.
This time, he doesn’t let me walk in alone.
This time, he helps me out of my jacket and hands it to the attendant along with his.
This time, when we step onto the carpet and the first camera swings toward us, Julian’s arm shifts, guiding me into him with a deliberate ease.
“Mr. North!”
“Julian!”
“Lucy...Lucy, over here!”
The sound of my name coming from strangers is still jarring. Like being touched by hands you didn’t consent to. Like a spotlight snapping on in a room you thought was private.
Julian leans slightly toward me, his mouth near my ear, his voice calm and controlled.
“Eyes forward. Smile once. You don’t have to answer anything that I don’t answer first.”
I nod, grateful and resentful all at once.
Grateful because he’s right.
Resentful because it still feels like I’m borrowing his armour to survive this.
We stop at the marked place where they want us to pose. Julian turns me a fraction, so the cameras get a clean angle. His fingers slide down my arm, then settle lightly around my wrist, guiding without gripping.
I feel his warmth.
I feel his steadiness.
I feel my own heart trying to leap out of me and ruin my entire life.
Flashes pop.
“Lucy, let's see the ring.”
“Is this a whirlwind romance?”
“Are you pregnant?”
Oh my God.
I blink, stunned. Heat crawls up my neck, and I want to disappear. I want to bury my face in his jacket, but I stay perfectly still.
Julian’s expression doesn’t change, but something sharp flickers behind his eyes, an almost-imperceptible warning to the room.
“I know you are all excited about the news,” he says evenly. “Tonight is about the cause.”
He doesn’t say don’t ask my wife that.
He doesn’t have to.
The cameras pivot anyway, hungry.
“Lucy, what did you wear to the ceremony?”
I almost laugh.
I almost cry.
Julian’s thumb strokes the inside of my wrist once, small, grounding.
“It was private,” he says. “That was intentional.”
He is avoiding answering by laying down a boundary, a door closed softly but firmly.
The press line is forced to accept it because Julian North’s no is the kind of no that doesn’t invite negotiation.
We finally move inside, and the shift is immediate.
It’s warmer, brighter, and somehow quieter, like the building swallowed the noise and replaced it with curated music and polished laughter. The air smells like perfume and champagne and something floral that’s expensive enough to be subtle.
I take it in differently than Julian does. I don’t see power plays, donor hierarchies, and business strategy.
I see bodies.
I see exhaustion behind smiles.
I see women with aching feet, holding themselves like they’re fine.
I see men who don’t know what to do with their hands unless they’re holding a drink or a woman or making a business deal.
I see servers who move like ghosts, invisible unless you look for them.
I see myself reflected in glass and glossy surfaces and realize, again, that I look like I belong.
That’s the strangest part.
That I am Lucy Bennett, the woman who used to count down to payday and ration groceries and memorize medication schedules, and I’m walking into a gala on Julian North’s arm like this is the most natural thing in the world.
My stomach flips because I am not her anymore. I am Lucy North.
“Northwell’s table is to the left,” Julian says quietly.
His voice is smooth. Controlled. Like it always is in public.
But then, just for me, his hand shifts to my lower back again and stays there.
Present and constant. The warmth of it seeps through the lace, like an anchor.
Like he’s reminding me I’m not alone.
We weave through the room, stopping briefly when someone important catches Julian’s eye. He introduces me with minimal information, always in the same tone.
“This is my wife, Lucy.”
Every time he says it, something in my chest tightens and then loosens in the same breath.
My wife.
I hate how much I want to believe it means more than it does.
I hate how much it makes me feel safe anyway.
A woman in emerald green touches my arm gently when Julian steps aside to greet a man he knows.
“You’re stunning,” she says, eyes kind. “And brave.”
I blink. “Brave?”
She smiles like she knows something I don’t. “This world isn’t kind to women who feel.”
Don't I know it.
Julian returns, his hand finding mine without thinking.
He doesn’t even look down when he does it.
He just… does it.
Like he forgot anyone else was watching.
And maybe he did.
We reach the Northwell table, and Theo is the first to stand, grin sharp and delighted. He looks like he lives for chaos, but his eyes flick over my face with something that feels like assessment, like he’s checking for cracks.
“Mrs. North,” he says with theatrical reverence.
I roll my eyes because it’s the only way to survive him. “Theo.”
He leans in, kisses my cheek, and murmurs, “You’re doing great. Welcome to the family.”
The familiarity of it catches me off guard more than his jokes ever do.
Elliot is next, polished, charming, already half in performance mode. Harper is with him, blonde and perfect, her ice-blue eyes flicking over me with that same quiet measuring gaze as the last event… but there’s something different now.
Less curiosity.
More… acceptance.
She smiles. It doesn’t feel weaponized this time.
“Lucy,” she says warmly. “It is so nice to see you again.”
I smile, surprised at the warmth I feel from her, and Harper’s smile widens like she’s pleased she earned it.
Rowan nods politely, unreadable as always. His date tonight is different, still pretty, still careful, still clearly not permanent. Rowan’s attention doesn’t linger on her. He watches the room like he’s watching exits.
Caleb stands last. No theatrics. No charm. Just a steady presence.
He inclines his head at me. “Mrs. North.”
The title sounds strange from him. Like something he doesn’t believe in. Like he’s saying it because it matters that he does.
I sit, and Julian follows, sitting beside me. And I realize, with a quiet shock, that this feels so different from the last gala. Last time, I felt like I was being evaluated.
Tonight… I feel like I’m being held.
Dinner begins, and there’s a speaker who introduces us to the video montage meant to tug heartstrings, and I feel myself getting quietly angry because suffering shouldn’t be fundraising entertainment, but I also know the cheques written tonight will change someone’s life.
Julian doesn’t drink much. He keeps his glass mostly untouched, his focus moving between conversations and me.
Every time a stranger leans too close, Julian shifts subtly, repositioning his body so I have space. Every time someone asks me a question that feels too personal, Julian answers first, redirecting without making it obvious he’s doing it.
It’s not dominance.
It’s protection.
I’m halfway through my main course when I sense it.
That shift in air.
Graham Whitaker appears at the edge of the table with a bright smile. He looks… effortless.
He's in a dark grey tux this time. That same easy confidence. That same targeted friendliness. His gaze finds mine.
“Lucy.”
Just my name.
Like we’re alone.
I feel my spine straighten instinctively.
Julian’s hand rests on the back of my chair immediately. Not gripping, just there, it's warm and comforting. It's a line drawn quietly behind me.
Graham’s eyes flick to it, and amusement flashes.
Then he looks at Julian and gives the smallest nod.
“North.”
“Whitaker.”
The temperature between them dips.
Graham turns back to me, smile widening. “You look incredible.”
“Thank you,” I say carefully.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Graham continues, conversational. “I wanted to follow up on our conversation.”
I blink. “We didn’t have...”
“I wanted to,” he corrects smoothly.
Julian’s fingers slide once, just once, along the top edge of my chair. Like a reminder.
Like a question. Are you okay?
I answer without looking at him.
“I’ve been busy,” I say.
Graham’s smile doesn’t falter. “Of course. I imagine married life comes with… adjustments.”
There’s something pointed in his tone.
Like he’s testing me.