I swallow hard. “I wasn’t going to talk to you about this, I don't want you to ever think about this... I....”
She snorts. “Who else are you going to talk to? You don’t have friends, Lucy. You have coworkers and responsibilities.”
“That’s unfair.”
“It’s accurate.”
I close my eyes. Then, because the truth is already clawing its way out of me, I say it.
“What do you think about… contractual marriages?”
Emily bursts out laughing. “Like Bridgerton?”
I wince. “No.”
“Mafia romances?” she tries. “Cold billionaire meets tragic heroine?”
My heart stutters, and she stops laughing.
Her gaze sharpens. “Does this have anything to do with the handsome billionaire you had dinner with?”
“What?” I squeak. “How would you...”
She reaches for her phone, pulls something up and turns the screen toward me.
And there it is.
A grainy but unmistakable photo of Julian and me at dinner. Candlelight, with a creative angle. His body turned toward mine. My hand mid-gesture, animated, open.
CHICAGO INSIDER
Northwell founder spotted at cozy dinner with mystery brunette.
My stomach drops.
“I...” I scramble. “I work for him. I’m planning the Northwell Christmas party.”
Emily snorts. “Lucy.”
“I do.”
“Sure,” she says dryly. “And I dissect cadavers forfun.”
I groan and drop my face into my free hand.
After a long moment, I tell her everything.
The dinner.
The conversation.
Theoffer.
The wordmarriagestill feels surreal in my mouth.
Emily listens without interrupting, her expression shifting from disbelief to concern to something quieter.
When I finish, she leans back against the chair.
