It’s observant.
My eyes lock with his, and this close, I can see they are not blue but a steel grey.
“She wants to specialize in autoimmune diseases,” I continue, because now I’m talking and I’m not sure how to stop. “She says if she’s going to spend her life watching our mom suffer, she might as well do something about it.”
Julian listens without interruption. No judgment. No commentary.
It feels like being held in attention instead of evaluated.
“And your mother?” he asks gently.
I hesitate again. This time, the question feels too personal.
“She’s… tired,” I say honestly. “But she still laughs. She still tells terrible jokes. She still apologizes for things that aren’t her fault.”
His jaw ticks slightly at that.
I don’t miss it.
For a moment, the table feels warm, safe... almost romantic.
This feels like a date.
Not the dramatic, sweeping kind. The quiet, way where you start imagining things you shouldn’t.
Julian takes a sip of wine and sets the glass down carefully.
“Lucy,” he says.
The shift is immediate.
The warmth recedes.
“I need to be clear about why I asked you here tonight.”
My pulse spikes.
“I want to start by saying, this is a conversation,” he continues. “Not pressure.”
The words sound reasonable. Controlled. Practiced.
But why?
“I have a situation,” he says. “One that requires stability. Visibility. Alignment.”
The language is colder now. Familiar. Corporate.
“You have a situation as well,” he adds. “One that requires resources, access, and time.”
My stomach drops.
“I’m proposing a solution that addresses both.”
I already know what’s coming. But that can't be right. This isn't...
“I’m asking you to consider a marriage of convenience.”
The room tilts.
