Chapter 161

Chapter 161
Ethan

The file on Julian Cross sat open on my desk, its contents spread across the polished mahogany like evidence in a trial I was conducting against myself. Published author, two novels with critical acclaim. A profile in The Atlantic describing his prose as "quietly devastating." Three years younger than me, never married, no children. A man who spent his days listening to other people's stories and finding the words to make them matter.

I stared at the photograph clipped to the top—Julian at some literary event, caught mid-laugh with a warmth that seemed entirely unperformable. I thought of the way he had leaned toward Mia in Claire's studio, the two of them bent over exhibition text like conspirators sharing a secret language. The way her hands had moved when she talked about light and shadow, and how he had nodded as though he understood not just the words but the spaces between them.

The headache announced itself with the familiar pressure behind my right eye. I reached into my desk drawer for the prescription bottle, shaking two pills into my palm and swallowing them dry. The bitterness lingered on my tongue.

I picked up my phone and typed: We need to talk. About Mia. 4pm, The Pump Room, private booth.

The response came three minutes later, a single word: Fine.

I closed the file and slid it into my briefcase. I knew Julian's background, his work history, his modest apartment in Wicker Park. What I did not know was whether he was capable of giving Mia the life she deserved when I was no longer there to fail at it myself.

If he understands her art, I thought, if he truly sees what she creates—then he can give her something I never could.

The thought should have been liberating. Instead, it settled in my chest like a stone.

---

The Pump Room occupied a corner of the Ambassador Chicago with understated elegance—leather banquettes, dim lighting, staff trained to be invisible. I arrived fifteen minutes early and requested the private booth in the back, positioning myself with my back to the wall and a clear sightline to the entrance.

Old habits.

Julian walked in at precisely four o'clock, his expression guarded beneath casual indifference. He wore a linen jacket over a simple black t-shirt, the studied carelessness of a man who had never needed power ties to prove himself. His gaze swept the room before landing on me.

"Wentworth." He slid into the opposite side of the booth without offering his hand. "I wasn't sure you'd actually show."

"I said I would."

"You also spent two years treating your wife like she was invisible, so forgive me if I don't put much stock in what you say."

The words landed with precision. I absorbed them without flinching, recognizing in his hostility the protective instinct I had failed to exercise when it mattered.

A server took our orders—whiskey for both, neat—and disappeared. Julian settled back, arms crossed.

"So. Are we going to sit here in silence, or are you going to tell me why you dragged me across town? If this is about marking territory, save your breath. Mia's not a possession."

"I'm not here to threaten you." My voice was steady, though the effort cost me. "I'm not here to warn you off."

"Then what?"

"I need to ask you a favor."

His laugh was sharp, humorless. "A favor. From me." He leaned forward. "Let me guess—you want me to back off so you can play devoted husband now that she's finally making something of herself."

"No." I met his gaze. "I want you to take care of her when I can't."

The words hung between us. His brow furrowed, confusion replacing the combative edge.

"What the hell does that mean?"

I withdrew my phone and pulled up the email from the Hirslanden Clinic—the one with its clinical language and carefully hedged prognosis. I slid it across the table.

"Read it."

His gaze dropped to the screen. As his eyes moved across the text, skepticism cracked into disbelief, then comprehension, then stunned silence.

"This is real?"

"Brain tumor. Surgery in four to six weeks. Reasonable success rate, but significant chance of complications." I recited the facts like a quarterly report, emotional detachment my only shield. "If something goes wrong, I need to know someone will be there for her. Someone who actually understands what she creates."

Julian stared at me, phone still clutched in his hand.

"You can't be serious."

"I've never been more serious."

"So instead of telling your wife you're sick—instead of letting her decide how to handle this—you're asking me to step into your shoes?" His voice was rising. "Like she's a project you're handing off? A corporate succession plan?"

"It's not like that—"

"The hell it isn't." He pushed the phone back hard enough that it skidded into my glass. "You spent two years ignoring her, making her feel like nothing. And now your first instinct is to arrange her next relationship before you even tell her you're dying?"

The words struck like blows. I sat motionless, offering no defense because there was none.

"She's not a company," Julian continued. "She's not an asset to transfer. She's a person who deserves to make her own choices. And you're trying to take that away under the guise of protection."

My hands had begun to tremble. I pressed them flat against the table.

"You don't understand," I said quietly.

"Then explain it."

The accusation cracked something open inside me—a door I had kept sealed against memories threatening to flood through.

"I watched her," I said, voice low and rough. "For months, I watched her take care of my grandmother. Eleanor was dying slowly, and Mia was there every day. Reading to her, holding her hand through the pain. She poured everything into that woman because she felt obligated. Because Eleanor had helped her when she had nothing."

Julian said nothing, but his rigid shoulders began to soften.

"She lost herself doing it." My gaze dropped to the untouched whiskey. "By the end, she was exhausted. Hollowed out. She'd stopped taking photographs, stopped talking about her dreams. She'd given every piece of herself to someone else's dying." I forced the next words through the tightness in my throat. "And I let it happen. I was too wrapped up in my own resentment to see what it cost her."

Silence stretched between us.

"She finally found herself again," I continued. "These past months—watching her prepare for this exhibition, watching her remember who she is—it's the first time she's seemed truly free." I looked up, meeting his eyes. "I can't take that away. I won't let her spend another year at someone's bedside, losing herself while she watches me deteriorate."