“Is this a whirlwind romance?”
“Are you pregnant?”
Oh my God.
I blink, stunned. Heat crawls up my neck, and I want to disappear. I want to bury my face in his jacket, but I stay perfectly still.
Julian’s expression doesn’t change, but something sharp flickers behind his eyes, an almost-imperceptible warning to the room.
“I know you are all excited about the news,” he says evenly. “Tonight is about the cause.”
He doesn’t saydon’t ask my wife that.
He doesn’t have to.
The cameras pivot anyway, hungry.
“Lucy, what did you wear to the ceremony?”
I almost laugh.
I almost cry.
Julian’s thumb strokes the inside of my wrist once, small, grounding.
“It was private,” he says. “That was intentional.”
He is avoiding answering by laying down a boundary, a door closed softly but firmly.
The press line is forced to accept it because Julian North’s no is the kind of no that doesn’t invite negotiation.
We finally move inside, and the shift is immediate.
It’s warmer, brighter, and somehow quieter, like the building swallowed the noise and replaced it with curated music and polished laughter. The air smells like perfume and champagne and something floral that’s expensive enough to be subtle.
I take it in differently than Julian does. I don’t see power plays, donor hierarchies, and business strategy.
I see bodies.
I see exhaustion behind smiles.
I see women with aching feet, holding themselves like they’re fine.
I see men who don’t know what to do with their hands unless they’re holding a drink or a woman or making a business deal.
I see servers who move like ghosts, invisible unless you look for them.
I see myself reflected in glass and glossy surfaces and realize, again, that I look like I belong.
That’s the strangest part.
That I am Lucy Bennett, the woman who used to count down to payday and ration groceries and memorize medication schedules, and I’m walking into a gala on Julian North’s arm like this is the most natural thing in the world.
My stomach flips because I am not her anymore. I am Lucy North.
“Northwell’s table is to the left,” Julian says quietly.
His voice is smooth. Controlled. Like it always is in public.
