Chapter 41 - Lucy
Six months.
It feels strange to think about it like that, as a number, because nothing about this has felt measurable.
It hasn’t unfolded in neat increments or predictable milestones.
It’s been quiet moments stacking on top of each other until one day I realized I was standing somewhere different than where I started.
Julian surprised me with Paris.
He told me on a Tuesday night, over dinner, like it was nothing more than a casual thought that had occurred to him between meetings.
“We leave Friday,” he said, glancing up from his phone. “Back Sunday night.”
I stared at him; fork suspended halfway to my mouth. “Paris?”
“Yes.”
Just like that.
He apologized immediately, like he thought he knew the first thing I’d think. “I am sorry that we can’t stay longer. There’s an acquisition coming up that needs my attention. I’ll be busy for a while after this.”
Busy was Julian’s default state. But the fact that he’d carved out this weekend, this specific weekend, meant more than the trip itself.
"What about my mom?" I asked slowly, not wanting to ruin the moment.
“I checked,” he said, already ahead of me. “She is doing well, Emily said she would stay the weekend with her. Everything’s covered.”
I wanted to say a million things, but my emotions were bubbling beneath the surface, and I didn't trust my voice. So I smiled at him, jumping from my chair and practically throwing myself in his arms.
Paris in the spring feels like a dream someone else is having.
It’s warm but not heavy. The air carries the scent of flowers and baked bread and something old and romantic that feels woven into the streets themselves. Julian has been here before, many times, but he lets me lead because it’s my first time. He told me that this is my city to discover.
We walk everywhere.
We eat too much.
We linger.
He watches me like I’m something he’s afraid might disappear if he looks away too long.
There are kisses pressed to my temple as we cross streets. His hand always finds mine. He pulls me into doorways just to steal a quiet moment, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm on my skin.
It’s not rushed.
It’s not desperate.
It’s us.
And somewhere between a late-night dinner overlooking the Seine and the way he traces slow patterns on my back in the dark, something inside me settles completely.
In the past six months, there have been so many moments where the words almost slipped out.
When he brings me coffee exactly the way I like it, without asking.
When he sits beside my mother for hours, listening more than speaking.
When he texts me Home late. and then still shows up earlier than I expected, jacket over his arm, eyes lighting up when he sees me waiting.
I never said it.
Not because I didn’t feel it.
Because I was afraid.
Afraid of scaring him, of naming something that felt fragile simply because it mattered so much. Julian has never said it either, but I feel it in everything he does. The way he shows up, chooses me, again and again, without spectacle.
The media loves us.
They call us balanced. Perfect. An unlikely match that somehow works.
Julian North: business, law, power.
Lucy North: softness, care, philanthropy.
Sometimes it feels like a story people want to believe in so badly that they don’t look too closely at how real it actually is.
And sometimes… I forgot there was ever a contract at all.
On the flight home, I’m exhausted in that deep, contented way that comes from happiness instead of stress. I curl into Julian’s side, my head tucked beneath his chin, his arm firm around me like an anchor.
The cabin lights are low. The quiet hum of the plane is steady and soothing. He reads while I stay safe and warm in his arms.
We land after midnight, and even though I know I will be exhausted tomorrow, I am so happy. So content in what he gave me from that trip, not the expense or the luxury, but his time and attention and even though it is unsaid, his love. I felt it in every moment.
We settled in the back seat of our car, the driver waiting for us when we arrived. Julian pulls me into his side and murmurs something into my hair, too quiet for me to catch, but I feel it more than I hear it. The vibration of his voice. The familiarity of it.
And instead of keeping the words locked safely inside my heart, instead of waiting for the right moment that might never come…
I say it in almost a dream-like state. My eyes are closed, my breath even and heavy, his scent surrounds me and it comes out in a sigh...
“I love you, Julian.”
Sleep claims me almost immediately, heavy and warm, pulling me under before I can second-guess myself. I don’t wake when we arrive at the penthouse. I don’t wake when he carries me inside. I don’t wake when he tucks me into bed.
I wake early the next morning. I smile before I even open my eyes, feeling this perfect moment of peace. I open my eyes and can tell by the lights that it's still early.
My mind flickers through the beautiful moments of the weekend before my body registers what is wrong. I know before I roll over that the bed is empty.
But I still check, I roll over and stare at the empty space beside, my hand reaches out without permission, and the sheets beside me are cold.
And as memory slides back into place, clear and sharp, I remember everything.
The way he held me, the way we made love and then on the car ride home... the way his body went impossibly still when I said those words.
Hope doesn’t shatter all at once.
Sometimes it cracks so softly you don’t hear it until the silence feels wrong.
And for the first time in six months, I feel the ground beneath me shift.
Just a little.
But I hold on to the hope, because he told me he would be busy; he warned me before the trip, before the words slipped past my lips. I hold on to hope and the fact that I could be reading too much into this... that everything is going to be ok.