"Your plane?" My voice came out higher than intended. "You have a plane?"
"A small jet," Julian clarified, as ifthat made it less shocking. "It's more convenient for business travel, and it means we can leave whenever we want without worrying about airline schedules."
I stared at him, once again struck by the casual way he mentioned things that were completely outside my realm of experience. A private jet. Of course he had a private jet.
"Julian," I said slowly, "Exactly how wealthy are you?"
Julian's jaw tightened slightly, and I could see him choosing his words carefully. "Wealthy enough that travel logistics don't have to be complicated."
It wasn't really an answer, but it was answer enough. I felt the familiar vertigo that came with glimpsing the true scope of Julian's world—a world where private jets were practical solutions rather than impossible luxuries.
"I keep forgetting," I said quietly, closing my laptop. "About the scope of... all this."
"Does it bother you?" Julian asked, and I could hear genuine concern in his voice.
I considered the question honestly. Did it bother me? The wealth, the luxury, the way Julian could casually solve problems with resources I couldn't even imagine having?
"It doesn't bother me," I said finally. "But it does remind me how different our worlds are. I was worried about airline baggage fees, and you're talking about taking a private jet like you’re calling an Uber."
Julian knelt beside my chair, his hands finding mine. "Our worlds might be different, but what matters to me is the same as what matters to you. People we care about, experiences that bring us joy, building something meaningful together."
"Even when building something meaningful involves private air travel?" I asked with a smile that took the sting out of the question.
"Especially then," Julian said, bringing my hands to his lips. "Besides, this way your parents get to see their daughter when she wants to be there, not on someone else’s schedule. Isn't that worth something?"
The thought of my parents' faces when they hear that their daughter was on a private jet that landed at their small regional airport made me laugh despite myself. "They're going to think I've lost my mind."
"Or that their daughter has excellent taste in men," Julian suggested with a grin.
As I finished packing—Julian offering opinions on outfit choices when I asked for his opinion—I felt the excitement building again. Tomorrow, I'd be taking Julian home to meet the people who mattered most to me. And somehow, despite the private jets and the penthouse and all the reminders of howdifferent our backgrounds were, it felt exactly right.
Because underneath all the wealth and sophistication, Julian was still the man who'd rescued me from drunk idiots at a bar, who'd spent a week creating something beautiful just for me, who'd shared his darkest secrets in my bed.
The man who was currently folding my sweaters with the same precision he brought to everything else, while asking detailed questions about my parents' interests so he could make a good impression.
Private jet or not, he was mine. And tomorrow, my parents would see exactly why that mattered more than anything else.
23
Julian
Thursday morning light filtered through Vivienne's bedroom curtains with the soft quality that promised a clear day for flying. I lay still, watching her sleep, my chest tight with a contentment I was still learning to recognize. Yesterday had been perfect in ways I hadn't known I wanted—the easy intimacy of sharing her space, the way she'd taken charge with dinner delivery, the complete absence of performance or pretense between us.
My phone buzzed quietly on the nightstand. A text from my pilot confirming our flight plan was filed and the jet was ready whenever we needed it. I'd arranged for a 10 a.m. departure, which would put us in Kentucky by 3 p.m. local time, but Sebastian knew to be flexible. One of the benefits of private travel—we could leave when we were ready, not when some airline decided.
I shifted slightly, careful not to wake Vivienne, and checked my other messages. Roy had sent a few of the final shots from Saturday's photo shoot, and even viewing them on my phone's small screen, I could see how Vivienne's input had transformed the entire collection. The movement, the life in the fabric—it was revolutionary compared to my usual static presentations.
Everything was different since Vivienne. My work, my priorities, the way I moved through the world. Yesterday, I'd spent an entire day focused solely on her, on us, without once checking my schedule or worrying about missed opportunities. The old Julian would have been anxious about the productivity lost. This Julian just felt grateful for the time gained.
I had three calls scheduled for later this afternoon—conference calls I could handle from anywhere with decent internet. The beauty of modern technology was that I could run my business from a small town in Kentucky just as easily as from my San Francisco office. My world had become remarkably portable since Vivienne had entered it.
The alarm clock on her nightstand read5:47 a.m. In thirteen minutes, her daily alarm would go off, jarring her awake for a job she was currently suspended from. The thought of her usual 6 a.m. wake-up call filled me with protective tenderness. She didn't need to wake up early today. She deserved to sleep in, to rest, to let me take care of the morning details while she recovered from the stress of the past few days.
I watched the digital display change: 5:48, 5:49, 5:50. Her breathing remained deep and even, her face peaceful in sleep. When was the last time she'd been able to sleep without an alarm? Probably not since she'd started teaching.
At 5:59, I carefully reached across her sleeping form toward the alarm clock. It was one of those old-fashioned and clunky digital models with physical buttons—the kind that was sure to have served her reliably for years but didn't have the intuitive interface of modern technology. I needed to find the alarm off switch before it woke her.
My fingers fumbled over the small buttons on top of the device, searching for anything that looked like it would disable the alarm. 5:59 became 6:00, and I felt a moment of panic. Where was the damn off switch?
