Not Julian's... but everything that occupies the opposite of his.
Not a few pieces, but an entire wardrobe has been selected for me.
Gowns. Dresses. Tailored coats. Structured blazers. Silk blouses. Cashmere knits. Loungewear folded with surgicalprecision. Everything is organized by colour, fabric, and season. Shoes line the lower shelves, heels with red soles, sculptural stilettos, boots that cost more than my yearly rent. Handbags displayed like art. Jewelry laid out in velvet-lined drawers: diamonds, gold, pieces that glitter quietly, confidently.
This wasn’tshopping.
This is curation.
This is someone deciding who I am allowed to be.
I feel panic bubbling up from deep within me. I rub my collarbone, then tug at my sleeves, trying to ease the feeling.
Claire watches my face carefully. “Julian asked that your wardrobe be… comprehensive. You’re welcome to adjust anything. Remove what doesn’t suit you. Add what does.”
I laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “This is… a lot.”
She smiles, sympathetic, not defensive. “Yes. It is. He also said that if you were not a fan of the personal shopper he selected for you, you could select your own.”
Personal shopper? Why... what?
She keeps moving, and I keep wondering how I got here. I follow Claire out of the clos... dressing room. The bathroom is no less overwhelming. Marble, glass, and gold fixtures. A vanity stocked not with what I use, but with elevated versions of it. Designer skincare. Luxury makeup. Products I recognize only from magazines.
Nothing here is accidental.
Nothing here is cheap.
Nothing here belongs to the girl who budgeted groceries and counted pills and skipped meals so her sister wouldn’t have to.
This is your life now.
The thought lands hard and fast, stealing my breath.
We step back into the bedroom. I stand there, surrounded by wealth so vast it feels like a physical force, when I feel it.
Him.
Not footsteps.
Not sound.
Justpresence.
I turn, and Julian stands in the doorway.
His jacket is gone, shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing corded forearms. His tie is loosened like he was tugging on it since he left the office. His usually perfectly styled dark hair looks wild. He looks… undone. Like the day has taken something from him.
“Thank you, Claire,” he says evenly. “I can take it from here.”
She nods. “Of course.”
Then, to me, warm, steady, “If you need anything at all, Mrs. North, please call.”
Mrs. North.
The words continue to weigh me down in this space, surrounded by proof.
Claire leaves quietly, closing the door behind her, as Julian steps further into the room.
