I step closer, not touching, letting her decide if she wants space.
“I don’t want a marriage you’re bound to,” I say, the words heavy with truth. “I want one you choose every day.”
Lucy’s eyes squeeze shut for a moment, like the emotion is too much.
When she opens them again, her gaze is shattered and fierce.
“You hurt me,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say. “And I’m sorry doesn’t fix it.”
She shakes her head slightly. “I thought I was safe. I thought… I thought you were choosing me.”
“I was,” I say immediately. “I am.”
She laughs again, broken. “Then why did it feel like you were punishing me for loving you?”
The question kills me.
I inhale slowly.
“I didn’t know how to hold it,” I admit. “I didn’t know what to do with being loved.”
Lucy’s tears finally spill, silent, furious. She wipes them away like she hates them.
I don’t move. I don’t grab. I don’t demand.
I let her be.
Because this isn’t about my comfort.
It’s about our truth.
When she finally speaks again, her voice is quiet, wrecked.
“What are you asking me for, Julian?”
I swallow hard.
Not a demand.
Not a plea.
Just the truth.
“I’m asking you to stay married to me,” I say, voice low. “Not because you signed an agreement when you felt like you had no other choice.”
Lucy’s breath catches.
“Stay,” I say, pleading, “because we’re better together. Because I love you and you love me.”
Silence stretches.
Lucy looks at me like she’s trying to decide whether I’m real or just another version she can’t trust.
I hold her gaze.
I don’t flinch.
