She didn’t look away, either.
“He’s…” Lucy began, then stopped. Her fingers squeezing around her mother’s hand. “He’s Julian North. He's here to help.”
Her mother studied her. Then her gaze drifted back to me.
“Don’t,” she said quietly.
It wasn’t a plea.
It was a warning.
Lucy’s throat bobbed. “Mom...”
“I’m tired,” Marianne murmured. “Let me be tired. Just… don’t let anyone bulldoze you.”
Lucy went still.
I watched the words sink into her like a bruise and I should have stepped in. I should have said something that made it clear I understood the difference between helping and ownership. Instead, I held my silence.
Lucy walked me to the door as the first light of morning began to grey the window.
She didn’t invite me to stay. She didn’t ask me to leave.
She stood there in the clothes Claire brought, hair loose, face bare, eyes too wide with exhaustion.
“I'm going to go,” I said.
Her fingers curled around the sleeve of her sweater, like she was subconsciously seeking comfort.
“I can’t…” She stopped, swallowed. “I can’t do this without her.”
“I know,” I said.
Her gaze snapped up, tone sharp. “Do you?”
I didn’t answer quickly enough.
The silence between us was a living thing.
I corrected it. “Your mother will be cared for. You have my word.”
Lucy stared at me like she was deciding whether words meant anything coming from a man like me.
Then she nodded once, and I got the sense it wasn't in agreement. But strictly in acknowledgment of something said.
I left.
My penthouse had never felt cold before. It had always been exactly what it was meant to be: controlled, quiet, perfect. A place with clean lines and no history. A place that asked nothing of me when I walked through the door.
That morning, it felt like an empty room that had learned how to echo.
I took off my tux jacket and didn’t hang it up properly. I left my shoes by the door. I stood in the center of the living room and realized there was nothing here that would register if it vanished.
A place that had always felt like min was now showing its scarcity. No photographs of smiling faces. No personal touches or warmth.
The thought irritated me, sharp and immediate. Why did it matter all of a sudden?
I moved on instinct, a shower hot enough to punish, then the gym. Heavy weights. Repetition. Controlled pain. The only kind that makes sense.
