Chapter Three: The Ghost in the West Wing

The next morning, Jasmine awoke not to sunlight, but to silence. An eerie stillness blanketed the entire mansion, like the calm before a storm. She sat up slowly in the massive bed, sheets tangled around her legs. The taste of last night's performance still lingered in her mouth—smiles for the cameras, whispered nothings for the press, a carefully staged romance designed to fool the world.

And perhaps herself.

She pulled on a silk robe and padded barefoot into the adjoining bathroom, the marble cold beneath her toes. Everything here was too pristine, too untouched—like Lucien had built himself a palace, only to become its ghost.

A knock at her door broke the stillness.

"Come in," she called.

One of the maids entered, bowing her head. She looked no older than twenty, with neat braids tucked into a bun and a reserved, almost fearful gaze.

"Good morning, ma'am. Breakfast will be served downstairs in the terrace lounge. Mr. Thorn left early this morning, but he requested you be briefed on today's itinerary."

Jasmine frowned. "Briefed?"

The maid handed her a sleek tablet with Lucien's signature at the bottom. It read like a military schedule:

9:30 AM: Wardrobe fitting for luncheon appearance

11:00 AM: Interview with Elite Life magazine (PR requirement)

1:00 PM: Luncheon at ThornTech headquarters with Lucien

3:00 PM: NDA renewal signature and media training

5:00 PM: Downtime

7:00 PM: Public charity gala at the Metropolitan Gallery

Jasmine blinked. "NDA renewal?"

"Yes, ma'am," the maid said softly. "Mr. Thorn updates contracts weekly. Legal formality."

Weekly? This man was thorough to the point of obsession.

"Thanks," Jasmine muttered, dismissing her with a polite nod.

Once alone, she let out a breath and stared out the enormous window. A new world, new rules, and a man who was more mystery than flesh. Lucien was hiding something. And if she was going to survive this week—not just physically, but emotionally—she needed to understand him.

Fast.

---

The luncheon was a blur of elegant faces, meaningless conversation, and the weight of stares Jasmine hadn't asked for. Lucien sat beside her at the polished table inside ThornTech's sky-level dining hall, surrounded by corporate elites and investors. He wore power like a second skin. Cold, composed, perfect.

She played her role flawlessly—laughing at the right times, touching his arm subtly, locking eyes like they shared some secret spark. But beneath the table, she gripped her fork so tightly her knuckles turned white.

As the group dispersed for dessert, Lucien leaned toward her.

"You're improving," he murmured. "Very convincing."

Jasmine didn't look at him. "Maybe because I'm imagining stabbing you with this fork."

His lips curved—just slightly. "Your imagination will serve you well."

She turned to face him fully. "What exactly are we hiding, Lucien?"

He stilled. "What do you mean?"

"This arrangement. Your urgency. The NDA updates. You've done this before, haven't you? With someone else."

He set his glass down slowly. "I don't answer questions that cross boundaries."

"You're asking me to live in your house. Lie to the press. Smile like I love you. If we're pretending to be married, I at least deserve to know what ghosts I'm sleeping beside."

Lucien met her gaze. "There was someone once. It ended. That's all."

She leaned in. "Did she leave? Or did you push her out like everyone else?"

His jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

The elevator doors dinged softly in the distance, breaking the tension like a sharp breath in a quiet room. Lucien rose from his chair, brushing imaginary lint off his cuff.

"Finish your dessert," he said without meeting her eyes. "We have a magazine interview in an hour. Keep the curious questions to a minimum. You're not here to unearth my past."

"And yet I'm expected to perform like I know it," Jasmine shot back.

But Lucien was already walking away, his back straight, posture perfect, like nothing and no one could touch him.

---

The interview was held in the east drawing room of the Thorn Estate—lavishly styled, with velvet chairs, golden-framed mirrors, and a chandelier that looked like it belonged in a French palace.

The journalist from Elite Life, a woman named Clarissa Belmont, was all elegance and sharp teeth. Her eyes gleamed as she sat across from Jasmine and Lucien, voice recorder already rolling.

"So," she began, "everyone is buzzing about your sudden whirlwind romance. A marriage so private, and yet… so intriguing. Tell us—when did you two first meet?"

Jasmine opened her mouth, but Lucien cut in smoothly. "Four months ago. At a gallery in Brooklyn. She was standing in front of a piece I sponsored—one I didn't particularly like. But she defended it. Passionately. I was… intrigued."

Clarissa's brow arched. "And was it love at first sight?"

Lucien's eyes slid to Jasmine. "Something like that."

Jasmine smiled politely, though her heart beat louder than the recorder. He was too good at this. Too practiced.

Clarissa turned to her. "And you, Mrs. Thorn? What was your first impression of Lucien?"

Jasmine forced a soft laugh. "That he was arrogant. And completely unreadable. But beneath all that, I saw something raw. Untamed. Like he was trying very hard not to be seen."

Lucien blinked. Just once. A barely-there flicker of surprise crossed his features before the mask returned.

Clarissa leaned back, clearly delighted. "Fascinating."

---

That night, Jasmine wandered the halls of the Thorn estate, barefoot again, silk robe trailing behind her like mist. The west wing of the house had been closed off since she arrived. The staff avoided it. The air was colder there.

But something drew her toward it.

She pushed open a heavy door and stepped inside.

Dust clung to the walls. A large canvas draped in cloth leaned against the far end of the room. Faint moonlight spilled through stained glass windows above a grand piano no one had played in years. It smelled like memories. Abandonment.

She moved toward the canvas, fingers itching to pull the cloth back.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Lucien's voice—quiet, almost ghostly—echoed behind her. Jasmine turned sharply to find him standing in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled, glass of scotch in hand.

"I thought you were at the gala," she said.

"I was." He stepped into the room, shadows clinging to him like second skin. "But I saw your light under the door."

"What is this place?"

Lucien's jaw clenched. "A room for regrets."

Jasmine turned back to the canvas. "Was she an artist too?"

He didn't answer at first. Then, quietly, "No. She was a collector. Obsessed with perfection. With making the broken beautiful."

Jasmine's voice softened. "Did she break you?"

Lucien looked at her, and for the first time, something behind his eyes cracked. Not much—but enough to show the man beneath the marble exterior.

"I was already broken when she found me," he said. "She just polished the pieces."

Jasmine didn't know what came over her, but she walked toward him—slowly, deliberately—and took the glass from his hand.

She set it down on a nearby shelf and looked up at him.

"You can pretend all you want," she whispered. "But you feel things, Lucien. And that scares the hell out of you."

He didn't move. Didn't speak.

So she reached up and touched his cheek.

And Lucien Thorn—CEO, billionaire, cold-hearted devil—closed his eyes like her fingers burned him.

When he opened them again, he looked haunted. Hungry.

"Go to bed, Jasmine," he said, voice low and tight.

"No."

He stepped closer, their breath mingling. "I'm not a good man."

"I've never asked you to be."

She expected him to kiss her then.

He didn't.

He turned and walked away, footsteps echoing into the dark.

Jasmine stood alone in the room of regrets, heart pounding. She hadn't pulled back the canvas. But she no longer needed to.

Lucien Thorn was hiding more than art.

He was hiding pieces of himself he didn't want the world—or her—to ever see.

And Jasmine Lane had just taken her first step into unraveling the man behind the illusion.

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