I hang up and stare at the city until my eyes burn.
By the end of the week, things shift.
Not in a big way, but enough that Lucy notices.
Marianne’s labs improve. Köhler doesn’t look as grim. Teller speaks with more confidence. Emily sends Lucy a text that says,"Mom smiled today. Like, really smiled."
Lucy reads it and her knees almost buckle.
I catch her elbow instinctively, steadying her.
She doesn’t pull away.
That small allowance nearly breaks me.
When we get home that night, Lucy moves through the penthouse slower. Less like she’s braced to flee.
She stops in the kitchen and leans against the counter, arms folded tight across her.
There’s a tension in her posture, like she’s been holding something in all week, and she’s about to finally let it go.
“Julian,” she says.
My body goes still.
“Yes.”
She looks at me, really looks at me, and the exhaustion in her eyes is brutal.
“I can’t do this,” she says quietly.
My stomach drops and my heart races, but I don’t interrupt.
She swallows hard. “I can’t do a marriage where love exists when it’s convenient and disappears the second it means something.”
The words are measured. Like she’s rehearsed them in her head, choosing each one carefully so she won’t crumble mid-sentence.
I step closer, slow, like approaching a skittish animal.
“Then don’t,” I say.
She blinks. “What?”
“I don’t want that either.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate that it does, hate that weakness feels like failure when all I want is honesty.
Lucy’s gaze drops, jaw tightening.
“Then what do you want?” she asks, voice sharp now because she’s fighting for her footing.
I inhale slowly.
“The truth,” I say. “And then… your choice.”
Her laugh is small and broken. “My choice. That’s rich.”
“I’m serious,” I say. “I’m done doing this the way I was taught.”
Her eyes flicker at that. “And how were you taught?”
