THE JACKET ON THE CHAIR

The foyer was dark.

 But the office door was cracked.

 Light spilling under it like a secret she didn't want to open.

 Leona moved slow.

 No sound. No heels. Just quiet breath and bare feet.

 She crossed the hall.

 Paused.

 Then pushed the door open.

 Lucien sat behind the desk.

 Shirt sleeves rolled. Tie loosened. A glass of something dark untouched beside him.

 He didn't look surprised.

 Didn't look angry.

 Just… patient.

 Like he'd been waiting.

 And maybe he had.

 She stepped inside, pulse suddenly louder in her throat.

 "I didn't think you'd still be up," she said.

 He didn't answer that.

 Just looked at her once head to toe and said, "How are your parents?"

 Her stomach flipped.

 "They're… good," she said carefully.

 He nodded once.

 "I just got off the phone with them."

 Silence.

 "I didn't realize you'd left the city," he added, almost casual.

 She froze.

 He leaned back.

 Picked something up from the desk.

 A photo.

 Laid it down.

 Another.

 Then another.

 All in a row.

 The rooftop bar.

 Her. Laughing.

 Her. In Damon's jacket.

 Her. Inches from Damon's mouth.

 She didn't speak.

 Didn't breathe.

 Lucien looked at her not furious.

 Worse.

 Amused.

 "Must be a new friend," he said, tone cool. "Tell me… what's his name?"

 She swallowed hard.

 "I.... "

 "Or was it a reunion?" he asked, voice quieter now. "The one your little friend Tessa mentioned weeks ago?"

 Her fists clenched.

 He stood slowly.

 Walked around the desk.

 And stopped just close enough that she could smell the clean smoke of his cologne.

 "Maybe," he murmured, "I've given you too much freedom in this house."

 Leona's heart kicked.

 But she didn't step back.

 Didn't blink.

 Didn't run.

 She met his eyes.

 And whispered, "Then take it back."

 ---

 Leona stood her ground.

 Her chest rose and fell, but she didn't back down.

 Lucien was close now too close.

 The tension in the room was thick, suffocating, like a storm that hadn't yet broken.

 He moved toward her with the slow, calculated precision of a predator.

 She didn't flinch.

 "I don't know you like attention," he murmured, his voice low, almost dangerous. "He almost kissed you, and yet you stayed."

 Her throat tightened, but she held his gaze.

 "And what do you think that means?" she whispered, the challenge in her voice undeniable.

 He stopped inches away from her, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him, like a furnace she was trying to ignore.

 Lucien's eyes searched hers, reading her, studying her in a way that made her feel exposed. Vulnerable.

 He reached out, his hand brushing her cheek with a feather-light touch too light for someone who had just crushed her carefully built walls with his words.

 "I think you want it," he said softly, almost as if testing her.

 Leona's pulse spiked. The way he said it soft, but demanding. Like he already knew what she wanted before she did.

 "Want what?" she asked, her voice thick with defiance.

 His lips curled into a smile slow, knowing, dangerous.

 "I can give you that attention," he murmured, voice dropping an octave. "I can give you everything you crave, if that's what you want."

 Her breath hitched, but she refused to let him see how much he rattled her.

 She wasn't afraid of him.

 Or at least, she shouldn't be.

 But his presence was like gravity, pulling her in without mercy, making it harder to resist.

 "You think I want that?" she said, lifting her chin. "You think that's what I've been asking for?"

 Lucien's smile faded. His hand dropped from her cheek, but his eyes never left hers. "No. I don't think you're asking for anything. I think you're pretending. Pretending to be the person you want everyone to think you are."

 Leona swallowed. His words cut deeper than she'd anticipated. He was right. She wasn't the person she'd made herself out to be.

 But she wasn't sure who that person was yet.

 "Do you want me to pretend to be something else?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

 He stepped back, his eyes still locked on hers. "I don't care what you pretend to be, Leona."

 The words hung in the air between them, thick with meaning.

 "You'll play by my rules, or you won't play at all."

 The challenge was clear.

 The game had already started.

 Leona didn't blink when he stepped back.

 She didn't soften.

 But she didn't leave either.

 Lucien walked behind the desk again, slower this time. He opened the top drawer, pulled out a pen, and a new file.

 Her heart ticked.

 He flipped open the folder. Blank pages inside.

 Then he began to write.

 "New conditions," he said without looking up. "Since the old ones clearly weren't clear enough."

 She folded her arms. "Oh, this should be good."

 Lucien ignored her tone.

 Rule One: No unscheduled departures from the estate. Not without my sign-off.

 Rule Two: All social visits require 24 hours advance notice.

 Rule Three: No lying. Not even by omission.

 Rule Four: You'll wear your ring in public. Always.

 Rule Five: When I ask you a question, you answer it. Fully. Once.

 He signed the bottom.

 Slow.

 Sharp.

 Deliberate.

 Then looked up at her.

 His gaze wasn't fire.

 It was ice held too long in the hand—it burned slower.

 "These aren't requests," he said quietly. "They're protection. For you. And for me."

 Leona stepped forward.

 "Protection from what?"

 Lucien met her eyes.

 "From losing control."

 The words came out colder than she meant them to. But the moment they hit the air

 His jaw flexed.

 Just once.

 And for the first time, his voice slipped.

 Not rage.

 Not sarcasm.

 Something quieter.

 "You think this is control?"

 He slid the paper toward her.

 "You have no idea what it looks like when I stop trying."

 A silence stretched.

 Neither of them moved.

 Neither of them blinked.

 Leona finally took the file.

 Didn't sign it.

 But she didn't tear it either.

 She just looked up at him and said

 "You don't scare me."

 Lucien's reply came slow.

 "You should."

 But it didn't sound like a threat anymore.

 It sounded like a warning.

 To himself.

 ------

 The camera feed buzzed faintly.

 Lucien leaned back in the leather chair, arms folded, collar undone. One hand on the desk. The other on the remote.

 The screen split into four angles, her room, the hallway, the entry.

 He wasn't watching to catch her doing something wrong.

 He didn't know why he was watching at all.

 She was lying in bed now.

 Face bare.

 No makeup. No dress. No fire in her mouth.

 Just quiet.

 Reading something by lamplight, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt like she didn't even realize it.

 Lucien's jaw ticked once.

 Then again.

 Because something in his chest was

 Off.

 Not pain.

 Not sharp.

 Just… pressure.

 Uneven. Slow. Distracting.

 He pressed two fingers to his wrist and counted the rhythm.

 It was fast.

 Too fast.

 And the longer he stared, the worse it got.

 She tucked her knees under herself. Bit her lip. Smiled at whatever she was reading.

 She looked.. 

 He turned the screen off.

 Fast.

 Like it had burned him.

 Lucien stood and crossed to the bar. Poured a drink he wouldn't taste.

 He didn't sit again.

 Didn't speak.

 But the words kept replaying anyway.

 "Then take it back."

 And underneath it?

 The way she looked now.

 Like she didn't belong in this world.

 Like she was the only real thing left in it.

 It was barely 7:00 a.m.

 The kitchen lights were low, the marble cold under her feet as she padded in silently hair a mess, robe half-tied, no plans to speak to anyone.

 Then she saw him.

 Lucien.

 At the stove.

 Alone.

 Shirt sleeves rolled.

 Hair still damp from a shower.

 A coffee mug resting near his elbow.

 He didn't notice her right away not until the pan hissed, and he turned slightly to adjust the burner.

 Eggs.

 Burning a little.

 Over-salted by the look of it.

 Terrible, really.

 She stared.

 Not because he was doing it wrong.

 But because he was doing it at all.

 And for one stupid, inexplicable second—

 It made something tighten in her chest.

 Not in anger.

 Not in annoyance.

 In longing.

 She stepped forward just enough for her foot to creak on the tile.

 Lucien looked up.

 No blink. No smile. Just a nod.

 "Morning."

 Her voice stuck for a beat.

 Then, softly: "You cook now?"

 "I was hungry."

 "You have a chef."

 "She's late."

 She blinked.

 "You fired her?"

 "I gave her the day off."

 Leona walked to the island slowly. Sat on the stool without really thinking about it.

 He slid one of the eggs onto a plate, added a slice of burnt toast, and pushed it across to her.

 She looked down at it.

 Raised an eyebrow.

 He poured black coffee into a second cup and set it down beside the plate.

 "I don't poison people," he said without looking at her.

 "Could've fooled me," she muttered.

 But her fingers curled around the mug.

 Warm.

 He sat across from her.

 Didn't eat.

 Just sipped his drink and watched her with that unreadable, infuriating calm.

 And for the first time

 She didn't want to look away.

 She picked up the fork.

 Took a bite.

 And made a face. "This is awful."

 "I know."

 "You salted the yolk like it insulted you."

 "I told you I was hungry, not skilled."

 But there was something about the way he said it

 Dry.

 Almost like he wanted her to tease him.

 Like he liked it.

 She took another bite anyway.

 Didn't speak again.

 He didn't either.

 But something passed between them then

 Not tension.

 Not hatred.

 Something worse.

 Something soft.

 Something dangerous.

 And when he stood to rinse his plate, she stared at his back and thought

 Don't do this.

 Don't fall.

 But the burn in her throat wouldn't go away.

 The sun hadn't fully risen when she stirred.

 --------

 Gray light crept across the ceiling. The sheets tangled around her waist. Her breath shallow.

 And her chest 

 Tight.

 Not from fear.

 Not from panic.

 From the kind of ache that didn't belong to her.

 Not anymore.

 Leona sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes, trying to push the fragments away before they settled.

 But they didn't fade.

 The dream stayed.

 Lucien.

 In the library.

 Barefoot. Shirtless. Laughing softly.

 Not the cold, polite mask he wore like armor. Not the sharp, careful man who handed out orders like ultimatums.

 Just a man.

 A book in his lap. A scotch he wasn't drinking. A smile that wasn't cruel.

 She'd walked in, barefoot too. And he looked at her like

 Like she belonged there.

 Like she was more than just a wife on paper.

 She'd sat beside him.

 Their hands didn't touch.

 They didn't need to.

 The dream didn't need sex.

 It was worse.

 It had comfort.

 She stared at the ceiling now, biting her lip hard.

 Trying to punish herself for what her subconscious gave her.

 This wasn't love.

 It couldn't be.

 He was still the man who froze her accounts. Locked her door. Had her followed and watched and mapped like terrain he planned to control.

 But

 He made her breakfast.

 Badly.

 And the way he looked at her over that coffee cup

 No.

 No, no, no.

 She pushed the covers back, swung her legs over the side, stood up too fast.

 Her hands trembled.

 Not from rage.

 Not anymore.

 From something she didn't want to name.