I gasp instead, my lips parting instinctively, and something in him breaks free.
The kiss deepens. His hand slides around my waist, pulling me into him, grounding, claiming, steady. I melt into him, into this moment, into the possibility of us. It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s deliberate and devastating. My knees go week as I give into the kiss.
Too soon, he pulls back.
He studies my face like he’s memorizing it. Like he is making sure I am ok.
Then he laces his fingers through mine and pulls me with him, back through the penthouse, into the library where the photographer now waits.
The rest of the shoot blurs.
We move together easily now. Natural. Connected.
Julian’s hand finds my back without thinking.
My smile is real.
And somewhere between the shutter clicks and the quiet warmth of his presence, a new thought takes root.
I might be in over my head.
But for the first time, that doesn’t feel like something I need to run from.
Chapter 37 - Lucy
How do you know when you’re falling?
Not metaphorically. Not in the poetic way people talk about when they’re already on the ground and bleeding and pretending it was beautiful.
I mean the actual moment your body realizes gravity has shifted.
There’s a split second when your stomach drops and your balance goes with it, when your arms instinctively reach for something that isn’t there yet. Your brain hasn’t caught up, but your body knows, knows you’ve miscalculated, knows you’re no longer upright, knows the ground is coming whether you’re ready or not.
That’s what this feels like.
Not panic.
Not certainty.
Just that quiet, terrifying understanding that something inside me has tipped, and I don’t know how far the fall is going to be.
I’m standing in the ballroom of the Northwell Christmas party when it hits me.
Not during the speeches.
Not during dinner.
Not even when Julian introduced me, again and again, asmy wifewith that calm, steady authority.
It happens later.
When I’m not looking for it.
The Northwell holiday event is nothing like the galas. There are still chandeliers and tailored suits and impeccable wine, but the edges are softer. Staff are encouraged to bring families. There are children running between tables, their laughter cutting through the polite hum of conversation. A tree taller than my childhood living room ceiling glows in one corner, ornaments catching the light like scattered stars.
For the first time, I’m here as a guest.
Not staff.
