We step outside together. The city hums around us, taxis rushing past, headlights streaking across damp pavement, voices spilling out ofrestaurants and bars. People move quickly along the sidewalks, coats pulled tight against the evening air. We fall into step beside each other. At first the conversation stays light and easy.
“How long have you worked for the firm?” he asks.
“About a year,” I say. “Which means I’ve mastered the incredibly complex art of locating missing staplers and remembering everyone’s coffee orders.”
Lucien smiles. “An underrated skill.”
“You’d be surprised. One wrong latte and apparently the global economy collapses.” He laughs quietly. “And you?” I ask. “What did you want to be before you inherited an empire?”
He thinks for a moment. “Honestly? I wanted to build boats.”
“Boats?”
“Small ones. Sailboats. My grandfather used to take me sailing.”
“That sounds peaceful.”
“It was.”
“What happened?”
He shrugs lightly. “Life happened.”
We keep walking, trading small stories, bad teachers, embarrassing first dates, stupid childhood injuries. At one point I laugh so suddenly a couple passing us turns to stare.
Lucien grins. “See? You’re capable of joy.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I say.
Gradually the city noise fades. The sidewalks grow quieter, the streetlights farther apart. The buildings thin. Then I see the wrought-iron gate ahead of us.
Beyond it—rows of stone.
Gravestones.
A cemetery.
Lucien pushes the gate open and we walk inside. The city disappears behind us, replaced by quiet leaves and distant traffic humming somewhere far away. Graves stretch across the dim grass. Names, dates, entire lives carved into stone. Lucien stops in front of one grave and I read the name etched into the marble.
Evelyn Blackthorne
1990 — 2023
Beloved wife. A light that never faded.
A bench sits in front of the stone. Lucien sits and I follow slowly. The realization settles in my chest. He wasn’t cheating, he isn’t cheating, he’s grieving. Lucien watches the grave for a long moment before speaking.
“Cancer.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
He exhales. “She loved New York,” he says. “The noise. The chaos. Said it made her feel alive.”
A faint smile touches his mouth. “She was impossible not to love. Loud. Warm. The kind of person who could walk into a room and make strangers feel like they’d known her forever.”
He pauses.
“I love her.” The words hang in the air.