A proposition.
Something aboutmymother.
I don't know what to expect, but it feels far too close to hope, which immediately sets off alarm bells. Hope is expensive. Hope is reckless. Hope is how you end up disappointed with nothing to show for it.
I close my laptop and gather my things.
I call and check in on mom. Then I call and make sure Em will be home, and then after moving some things around and deciding I can walk more and take fewer taxis, I send her money so they can get takeout tonight. Hoping maybe one of mom's favourite foods will lift her mood.
I work right up until the last possible second, answering emails, reviewing staffing proposals, making myself useful because usefulness is what keeps me upright when uncertainty starts to creep in.
By the time I leave the building, it’s already dusk.
I didn't have the two-plus hours to go home and back before dinner. Instead, I ducked into the office bathroom and did what I could.
I took my hair down from the low bun it had been trapped in all day and ran my fingers through it until it looked presentable. It’s not styled, but it’sme. I smoothed the front of my dress, checking for creases from sitting all day. There’s a faint coffee mark near the hem that I pretend I don’t see.
I reapply my lipstick, the good one. The one that makes me feel like I know what I’m doing even when I don’t.
I look at myself in the mirror.
I don’t look like someone going to dinner with a billionaire.
I look like someone who worked a full day and then agreed to something she doesn’t fully understand.
That will have to be enough.
Because I don't know how to be anything else right now.
The restaurant feels like a secret.
Not hidden, just intentionally quiet, tucked away from the noise of the city, like it exists for people who don’t want to be seen. Candlelight glows against dark wood. The music is soft enough that it doesn’t interrupt thought. There are other diners, but they’re spaced far apart, voices low, conversations barely a background thought.
Julian North chose this place on purpose.
But why?
He stands when I approach the table, jacket off, sleeves rolled just enough to feel disarming without actually being casual. The chair he pulls out for me is deliberate. Polite. Controlled.
Everything about him is deliberate.
This close to him, I can smell his cologne; it is warmer than I would have imagined. He smells clean, masculine, but somehow understated. A scent I knew I had never smelled before, but somehow made me feel at home.
“Lucy,” he says in a tone I have not heard before.
He doesn’t sound like a man about to negotiate.
He sounds like a man about to get to know someone.
We ordered wine. He doesn’t choose for me, he waits, watches, lets me decide. That shouldn’t matter, but it does. I notice it anyway. I notice everything tonight.
For the first few minutes, we talk about nothing.
Not work. Not Northwell. Not events or timelines or deliverables.
The weather. The restaurant. How long it’s been open. The way Chicago changes personalities depending on the season.
It’s… easy.
