Chapter 36 - Lucy
Sunday mornings have always felt fragile to me. Like if you move too quickly, they shatter into obligation and noise and reality before you’ve had a chance to decide who you’re going to be that day. This one feels especially delicate.
I wake slowly, warm and heavy with sleep, tangled in sheets that still smell faintly like Julian. For a moment, I forget where I am. Who I am.
Then I remember where I am and why. The past few days come to me in full colour.
I roll onto my side and find him awake, propped slightly on one elbow, watching me with an expression so gentle it almost startles me.
“Good morning,” he says quietly.
His voice is lower like this, stripped of boardrooms and press lines. Just Julian. A man in a grey t-shirt with rumpled hair and sleep-soft eyes.
“Morning,” I murmur.
We lie there for a beat, neither of us moving, like if we stay still enough, we can preserve whatever this is before it gets complicated.
Then he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, careful, like he’s asking permission even though he doesn’t say it.
My breath catches. I wanted to turn into his hand, feel it on my skin.
“I have a confession,” I say, instead.
His brow lifts slightly. “That sounds ominous.”
“I slept,” I admit. “Like… better than I have in years.”
Something eases in his face. “Good.”
We make our way through the morning like this is natural. He makes the coffee while I find out how he likes his eggs. I make him laugh when I try to explain why runny egg whites are wrong, and the sound makes my heart trip over itself.
The morning feels peaceful.
But then there’s a knock at the door, and with it reality has arrived.
The PR team comes in waves, Harper first, clipboard in hand and smile perfectly calibrated. Then hair and makeup. Then garment bags. Then equipment.
Julian walks Harper and the photographer through the space, discussing light and angles and which rooms “feel lived in but aspirational.” I watch from the couch as they move away, his hand gesturing calmly, his posture relaxed but authoritative.
He looks comfortable in this world... his world.
I’m ushered toward the bedroom by two women who immediately begin assessing my face like a canvas.
“Bare skin is great,” one murmurs. “But not for this... We’ll need polish.”
They sit me down and start working, brushing and blending until I barely recognize the reflection looking back at me. My freckles fade under layers of foundation. My lashes grow longer, thicker. My cheeks sculpted, perfected.
My hair is pulled back into a tight, messy bun that feels more tight than messy.
I look objectively beautiful... But it doesn’t feel like me.
They dress me next, cream silk that slides over my skin like a whisper, clinging in ways that make me hyperaware of my body. A matching cashmere sweater layered on top, expensive and unmistakably curated.
Heels appear. Cream stilettos with red soles.
They tell me this is the perfect Mrs. North, casual-at-home look.
I stand.
I look… unreal. Unlike me.
When I step into the living area, Julian has changed too. Grey dress pants. Black button-up. Sleeves rolled up just enough to expose his forearms, relaxed but intentional.
He looks incredible.
The photographer begins positioning us.
Close but not touching, touching but not looking, looking but not smiling.
It feels stiff. Like we’re playing roles in a story neither of us wrote.
I feel myself shrinking into it, and Julian notices.
I don’t know how I know, maybe it’s the way his eyes flick to my face and linger too long.
He leans in slightly. “Your freckles,” he murmurs.
“What?” I whisper back.
“They’re gone.”
Before I can respond, he steps away.
My heart sinks.
He murmurs something to Harper I can’t hear, then crosses back to me and takes my hand.
“Come with me.”
He pulls me down the hallway, past startled staff, into our bedroom, closing the door behind.
The quiet is immediate.
He crouches in front of me and gently removes my heels, tossing them aside like they aren't something ridiculously expensive.
Then he stands and pulls me into the bathroom. He guides me to the counter and reaches up and carefully loosens my hair. His fingers work quickly, but gently as he pulls out hidden pins. The bun collapses, waves spilling around me.
My breath stutters.
He moves quietly, grabbing a washcloth and running under the water until he seems content.
When he is back in front of me he pauses, holding it between us.
His eyes search mine.
Asking.
I nod.
He steps closer, so close I can feel the heat of him, and gently begins wiping away my face makeup. Slow. Reverent. Like this matters.
My freckles reappear beneath his touch.
“There you are,” he says softly. “That’s better.”
People talk about moments in life. But I hadn't understood, not romantically, until then.
I expect him to step back, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he lifts my chin with two fingers, tilting my face up.
His eyes darken.
This is the moment, I think.
The moment everything could tip.
His thumb brushes my jaw.
His breathing changes.
And then...
He kisses me.
Soft at first. Questioning. Like he’s bracing for me to pull away.
But I don’t.
I gasp instead, my lips parting instinctively, and something in him breaks free.
The kiss deepens. His hand slides around my waist, pulling me into him, grounding, claiming, steady. I melt into him, into this moment, into the possibility of us. It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s deliberate and devastating. My knees go week as I give into the kiss.
Too soon, he pulls back.
He studies my face like he’s memorizing it. Like he is making sure I am ok.
Then he laces his fingers through mine and pulls me with him, back through the penthouse, into the library where the photographer now waits.
The rest of the shoot blurs.
We move together easily now. Natural. Connected.
Julian’s hand finds my back without thinking.
My smile is real.
And somewhere between the shutter clicks and the quiet warmth of his presence, a new thought takes root.
I might be in over my head.
But for the first time, that doesn’t feel like something I need to run from.