My breath catches. I wanted to turn into his hand, feel it on my skin.
“I have a confession,” I say, instead.
His brow lifts slightly. “That sounds ominous.”
“I slept,” I admit. “Like… better than I have in years.”
Something eases in his face. “Good.”
We make our way through the morning like this is natural. He makes the coffee while I find out how he likes his eggs. I make him laugh when I try to explain why runny egg whites are wrong, and the sound makes my heart trip over itself.
The morning feels peaceful.
But then there’s a knock at the door, and with it reality has arrived.
The PR team comes in waves, Harper first, clipboard in hand and smile perfectly calibrated. Then hair and makeup. Then garment bags. Then equipment.
Julian walks Harper and the photographer through the space, discussing light and angles and which rooms “feel lived in but aspirational.” I watch from the couch as they move away, his hand gesturing calmly, his posture relaxed but authoritative.
He looks comfortable in this world... his world.
I’m ushered toward the bedroom by two women who immediately begin assessing my face like a canvas.
“Bare skin is great,” one murmurs. “But not for this... We’ll need polish.”
They sit me down and start working, brushing and blending until I barely recognize the reflection looking back at me. My freckles fade under layers of foundation. My lashes grow longer, thicker. My cheeks sculpted, perfected.
My hair is pulled back into a tight, messy bun that feels more tight than messy.
I look objectively beautiful... But it doesn’t feel like me.
They dress me next, cream silk that slides over my skin like a whisper, clinging in ways that make me hyperaware of my body. A matching cashmere sweater layered on top, expensive and unmistakably curated.
Heels appear. Cream stilettos with red soles.
They tell me this is the perfect Mrs. North, casual-at-home look.
I stand.
I look… unreal. Unlike me.
When I step into the living area, Julian has changed too. Grey dress pants. Black button-up. Sleeves rolled up just enough to expose his forearms, relaxed but intentional.
He looks incredible.
The photographer begins positioning us.
Close but not touching, touching but not looking, looking but not smiling.
It feels stiff. Like we’re playing roles in a story neither of us wrote.
I feel myself shrinking into it, and Julian notices.
I don’t know how I know, maybe it’s the way his eyes flick to my face and linger too long.
He leans in slightly. “Your freckles,” he murmurs.
“What?” I whisper back.
