Lucien's POV:
There is a difference between hunger and readiness.
I've wanted her since the moment I saw her — but that was hunger.
Now?
She's ready.
Not to surrender. Not yet.
But to choose.
And that is more powerful than anything I could take by force.
I watch from the car as she exits the clinic. She looks tired. Not physically — emotionally. The kind of exhaustion that comes from performing every second of the day. I know that weight. I've carried it. Worn it like armor.
Tonight, she walks slower.
I don't follow. I don't need to. She already feels me in the shadows.
---
Back in my office, Adrien is waiting again — this time with a second file. "It's confirmed," he says, tossing it on the desk. "Damien's clean on paper, but one of the firms he works with? They're laundering for the Greco family."
I look up slowly. "He know?"
Adrien hesitates. "Doubt it. He's the kind of man who keeps his hands clean by never asking where the money comes from."
That tracks.
Damien Morano is a man who values order, not truth. Image, not substance.He would rather sleep beside a goddess and never touch her than risk exposing the cracks in his carefully curated life.
Which makes him useless to me.
Unless I want to break her.And I don't.
I want to build her into something that scares the world.
The gallery invitation was a test.
Curated under an alias I use for less… conventional exhibitions. Sculptures that speak of restraint and release. Paintings that drip with subtext. An installation piece in the center of the room — a glass cube with a single chair inside, surrounded by mirrors angled inward.
Reflection from every side. No way to look out.
I watched from a mezzanine, unseen, as she entered the gallery late. Alone.
She stopped at the cube.
Stared at it for a long time.
And then — she stepped inside.
Sat in the chair. Closed her eyes.
When she opened them, her gaze lifted. Not toward the art.
Toward me.
Not directly. Not with certainty.
But close.
I didn't move.
I didn't speak.
But I smiled.
---
Three nights later, she finds the card. Slipped between the pages of La Petite Mort.
No name.
Just two words, handwritten in black ink.
No masks.
The date and time beneath it.A location: an upscale lounge in SoHo known for discretion. VIP entrance. Backroom privacy.
A neutral space.Not mine. Not hers.Ours — if she chooses it.
The night of, I arrive ten minutes early.
She's already there.
Not seated. Not drinking.
Just standing at the edge of the private booth, fingers brushing the back of the velvet sofa like she's deciding whether to sit or flee.
I pause in the doorway. Just long enough for her to turn.
And for the first time — she doesn't look surprised.
Her voice is even. Controlled. But her eyes?Lit.
"Why me?" she asks again.
Same question. Different setting. Different weight.
This time, I don't answer with charm.I answer with truth.
"Because you pretend to be untouchable, but you're starving to be known."
She exhales like she's been holding that breath for years.
We talk.
Not in riddles. Not in roles.
About power. Control. Want.About the difference between being taken and being chosen.
At one point, she says softly, "You don't look at me like I'm breakable."
"I don't," I say. "Because you're not."
She's quiet for a long moment.
Then, with the same calm she uses to guide her clients, she says:
"If I walk out now, will you follow me?"
I shake my head once.
"No."
Her gaze sharpens. "Why not?"
I step forward, closing the space between us. My voice drops, low and steady.
"Because if you walk away now, it'll mean you're still hiding. Still theirs. Still his."
"And if I stay?"
"If you stay…" I reach out — not to touch her, just to let her feel the proximity. "…you're mine."
She doesn't speak. Doesn't nod.
She just sits.
Right beside me.
Her thigh brushes mine. Her hands rest in her lap — ring finger bare.
And the first wall crumbles.
Not because I took it.
Because she let it fall.