ME: Perhaps.
POPPY: I should try to sleep. Some of us have mortal limitations like needing rest.
The word “mortal” catches me off guard. She means it casually—a joke about being human. But from where I’m sitting, it lands differently.
ME: Sleep well, Poppy.
POPPY: You too. If you ever actually sleep.
POPPY: Julian?
ME: Yes?
POPPY: Thanks for this. For talking. I know you’re probably busy being important.
ME: I’m never too busy for you.
I send it before doubt sets in.
POPPY: Goodnight, Julian.
ME: Goodnight.
I set down the phone. The conference room feels emptier than it did an hour ago. The documents feel less important.
Marcus would tell me I’m being careless. Getting attached. Making the mistakes I swore I’d never make again.
He’d be right.
I pick up my phone and text my assistant.
ME: Clear my Wednesday and Thursday meetings. I’m flying back early.
The response is immediate.
REBECCA: Even the Hartwell meeting? You’ve been cultivating them for three years.
ME: Reschedule.
REBECCA: They won’t like it.
ME: They’ll survive.
I pocket the phone and stand at the window.
Right now, all I want to do is be with a woman in Los Angeles who can’t sleep because she’s dreading a wedding where her ex will be.
I should walk away. End the arrangement. Refund her money and disappear back into the careful anonymity I’ve built.
Instead, I’m moving my flight up by three days because I can’t stand the thought of her worrying alone.
The first rule of surviving two and a half centuries: don’t get attached.
I’ve already broken it.
The next few days pass in a blur of meetings I barely remember.
I take calls about the Tokyo merger while thinking about the way Poppy laughs—bright and surprised, like joy keeps catching her off guard. I review contracts while remembering how she looked at her grandmother’s photo, soft with grief and love.
