Page 2 of Julian

His tone is as droll as ever. “So you’ve told me at least a hundred times.” His eyes twinkle as a smirk spreads on his face, before he adds, “Sir.”

I chuckle as I leave him, moving down the corridor toward the dining hall, my footsteps echoing softly against the parquet floors. The house reveals itself as it always does in the periods of quiet—not ostentatious, but undeniably grand. The original crown moldings curve along the ceiling in elaborate sweeps of plasterwork, hand-carved garlands and cherubic faces frozen mid-celebration. The walls are paneled in deep walnut, polished to a subdued sheen that reflects the chandelier light in muted waves. Every archway bears the faint flourish of gilded detailing, a remnant of the era in which permanence was not only desired but expected.

This townhouse was built in a time when ambition was expressed in cornices and ceiling medallions, when wealth insisted on being both seen and remembered. Even now, it carries that air of Gilded Age confidence.

I step into the expansive dining hall. I’ve had countless meals here, both professional and personal. It has seen times of despair and times of exuberance. I hope the future holds more of the latter than the former.

The chandelier overhead casts a honeyed glow across the long mahogany table, illuminating the gold-leaf accents along the ceiling’s ornate medallion. Heavy velvet drapes frame the tall windows, sealing out the November chill and cocooning the space in warmth.

At the far end of the table sits Svetlana.

She’s already halfway through her first bite of pie. A single, pristine slice rests on delicate porcelain before her, unaccompanied by ice cream. She once informed me that proper pastry requires no embellishment.

Opposite her, my place setting awaits.

The slice is generous, the crust golden and precise. Two perfectly rounded scoops of vanilla ice cream lean gently into the warm filling, already beginning their slow surrender. A thin ribbon of warmed maple syrup glistens across the top, catching the chandelier light in amber streaks.

I take my seat, noticing that the ice cream has reached precisely the point of softness I prefer—no longer rigid, not yet dissolved.

“Apologies for the delay,” I say, reaching for my fork.

Svetlana’s gaze lifts to meet mine, assessing and faintly amused.

“I wondered,” she replies, her voice smooth and accented, “whether you might have followed him into the street.”

We eat. Not in silence, but in the easy rhythm of two adults who understand the choreography of evenings like this. The silverware moves in counterpoint against porcelain. Outside, the city seems distant, muffled by velvet drapes and thick glass.

Svetlana asks about the Vipers’ upcoming home game, and the media chatter surrounding a potential trade rumor that’s been circulating for weeks. She follows the business of the league more closely than most assume and does so with genuine curiosity rather than social obligation.

“I read that with the Portland Wildfire team now joining the league, many owners are discussing further expansion,” she says, cutting neatly into her pie. “That must complicate things.”

“It complicates revenue sharing,” I reply. “It also complicates egos, of which there are some large ones in many front offices.”

She smiles. “And you enjoy managing egos.”

“I enjoy managing outcomes.”

The conversation drifts from hockey economics to the art market, from the art market to travel plans she’s considering in the spring. It’s fluid and intelligent. Although she’s stunning, Svetlana is not ornamental. She has a successful career managing artists and ambitions of her own. There’s nothing vapid about her. Nothing shallow.

In fact, there’s not one single thing I can find wrong with her and she’d be a prime catch for any eligible bachelor.

And yet, as I watch her across the table, candlelight catching the sharp line of her cheekbone, the thought surfaces quietly and without cruelty… I don’t have it in me to feel for her. At least, not the way she deserves, and she’s well aware I’ll never commit to her. I’m always up front about that and if I get the slightest inkling that someone I’m seeing wants to take it to a deeper level, I’m afraid I have to cut her loose.

Svetlana finishes her dessert first, setting her fork gently on the plate with an air of finality.

“I must tell you,” she says, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin, “I loved this. The pie, yes. But the entire evening.”

“I’m glad.”

“No,” she insists softly. “Truly. I always enjoy my time with you, Julian. There’s a beautiful manner in which you host. It’s rare.”

“I try not to do anything any other way.”

She smiles at me, resting her chin in the palm of her hand as she stares at me fondly. “That’s obvious.”

I incline my head. “I’ve enjoyed it as well.”

And I have. The conversation’s been easy. The food excellent. The company undeniably attractive.