But for who?
Claire waits patiently while I take it in, like she knows better than to rush this part.
“This will be your primary residence,” she says gently. “Security access will be updated within the hour. You’ll have full clearance, fingerprint, code, and concierge authorization. No need to sign in or be announced.”
She gestures toward a discreet panel near the door. “The building staff has been notified. You’re listed as a permanent resident effective immediately. They have been instructed that, as Julian's wife, you are to be addressed as Mrs. North.”
Effective immediately.
Julian's Wife.
Mrs. North.
The words stack on top of each other until they start to feel heavy.
Claire moves forward, guiding me deeper into the space. The living area opens wide, with seating arranged to face the windows rather than a television, as if the city itself is the entertainment. Everything is pristine, expensive, untouched. I don’t see personal clutter. No photographs. No warmth. A space that serves a function no more.
Kind of like me.
I blink back the tears threatening to fall and push the intrusive thoughts away.
“This is the main entertaining area,” Claire explains. “Julian rarely hosts, but when he does, it’s typically business-related.”
I nod, even though my mind keeps snagging on the absence ofhimin the space.
We pass through the kitchen next.
It’s immaculate. Stainless steel, marble, and custom cabinetry that hides everything behind clean lines. It looks like a place where meals areprepared, not eaten.
“There’s a private chef who prepares meals in advance,” Claire continues. “He can also come in to cook fresh meals on request. Or we can adjust deliveries if you prefer. I have notified him that he will be cooking for you as well, and he will reach out to discuss your preferred diet.”
Claire hands me a slim folder and a card. “Contact numbers. Housekeeping. Security. Building management. I’m listed first.The card is linked to your personal account; details are in the folder as well.”
I take it automatically, adding it to the folders I already carry, my fingers brushing the edge, as it might anchor me. I don't even think I am fully processing everything today, so the folders are actually helpful.
We move down a hallway that feels longer than it should, art lining the walls, abstract, expensive, probably chosen because it doesn’t ask anything of the viewer. Doors branch off to a study, several guest suite's, a second sitting room, Julian's office, a library...
I walk feeling vaguely numb, trying to take everything in.
Then Claire stops.
“This is the primary bedroom.”
She opens the doors, and the room is expansive but not cold. The bed dominates the space, crisp and architectural, dressed in linens that look too perfect to disturb. The windows here feel closer, like the city is leaning in to watch.
I step inside, my pulse loud in my ears.
“And through here,” Claire says, gesturing toward an open doorway, “is the dressing room and bath.”
Dressing room, not closet.
I am about to question it until I walk in... and stop.
Holy shit.
The space is massive. Floor-to-ceiling shelving. Custom lighting. Mirrors that make everything look sharper, more deliberate.
And then I see the clothes.
