Silence.
“He can’t pick and choose when he wants to be my husband,” I add quietly.
Claire hesitates. “Please… think about the line you’re drawing.”
I close my eyes. “He’s the one who got us here, Claire. He decided to remind me of what we are. I am just following the rules he wrote.”
Julian calls that night. When I saw his name on my phone, my heart stuttered. I thought maybe he gets it now, maybe he sees what he's been doing. Maybe he is calling to apologize.
But his voice is tired, flat. Not warm or apologetic.
He starts speaking like he’s correcting me, as if I’ve inconvenienced him, and something inside me curls inward.
Before I can respond, I hear a woman’s voice in the background, and he cuts me off mid-sentence.
“I have to go,” he says sharply. “This conversation isn’t over.”
The line goes dead.
The next morning, Claire tells me he may be gone for another week, and the flicker of hope I had been holding onto begins to die out.
My mother isn’t doing well. Not dramatically. Just… slipping awa slowly. Flaring. Reacting badly to medication. The doctors keep sayingbe patient,like patience is something I haven’t already spent years perfecting.
I leave the facility shaking with anger and grief knotted together.
At work, Graham notices immediately. He pulls me into his office and asks me what is wrong.
I tell him about my mom. Only my mom.
He asks if I reviewed the folder he gave me, and I tell him no, but I will if he thinks it will help. I have kept my distance from Graham, ensuring it could never be perceived as anything other than professional. I didn't want to upset Julian with my working relationship.
On the way home, I decide I will review the information he had collected for me and bring it to Dr. Teller and his team.
When I walk into the penthouse, I sense I am not alone, and my heart perks up stupidly,Julian?before logic catches up with hope. Claire didn’t say he’d be back.
Maybe Rowan. He has been checking on me periodically, I am sure, more to reassure Julian that I was following the rules and sleeping in our bed every night than any concern for my well-being.
I walk through the rooms slowly, my heels clicking loudly in the silence.
And then I see him.
Richard North is sitting behind Julian’s desk, as if he owns it. A black folder is open in front of him. He looks up and smiles. It's smug and satisfied.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Just collecting a few things for my son,” he says easily.
My skin crawls.
“You know,” he continues, standing, “I told him you weren’t the right choice.”
Choice.
The word feels wrong coming from him.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
He laughs. “You didn’t think you were the only option, did you?”
