Proximity Issues. - Ch.05.

I was just about to rise from my seat, the last sips of my tea sitting comfortably in my stomach, my hand still faintly tingling from the handshake that may or may not have signed away my innocence, when Lucien said—

"Oh, and by the way…"

I froze mid-motion.

"We'll be seeing each other a lot in the upcoming days. Starting tomorrow. So you better be prepared."

I blinked. "A lot?"

He smiled like it was no big deal. "Yes. We'll go over the accounts, introduce you to some of the processes, maybe a few names. You'll be brought up to speed."

I tried to keep my voice even. "Right. And, uh… is it convenient to bring me here every day? With the driver and the… you know, castle?"

Lucien gave a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Probably not. Bit dramatic for daily commutes, don't you think?"

He stood, brushing invisible lint from his sleeves. "I'll rent an apartment near yours. It'll make things easier."

I stared at him.

"You're… moving?"

"Temporarily."

"To be near me?"

"Of course," he said simply, as if he were discussing weather patterns. "I like to keep an eye on my money."

My brain scrambled for a response. "Aren't you a prince? Don't you have people for that? You know, little suited men who whisper in your ear and handle logistics while you dramatically stare out of windows?"

"I do," he said, smiling. "But I don't trust them."

A beat passed.

"You trust me?"

He gave a tiny, infuriating shrug. "Not yet. But I'm optimistic."

I sat back down for a second, just to process that.

Because apparently not only had I accepted a job I barely understood, but now a minor royal with cheekbones sculpted by generational wealth was moving into my zip code to "monitor his investments."

I nodded slowly, like this was fine. Like this happened all the time.

"Cool," I said, standing again. "Great. Can't wait to… be financially supervised by royalty."

Lucien grinned. "Tomorrow, ten o'clock."

I walked out of the room, the hallway swallowing me slowly, the scent of lavender still thick in the air.

Behind me, I could feel his eyes on my back.

And in my head, one single thought repeated itself like a bad ringtone:

What the hell did I just sign up for?

The castle disappeared behind me like a mirage swallowed by trees.

The car ride home was quiet. No goat-brain conversations this time. Just the steady hum of the engine and the soft weight of realization settling onto my shoulders like a wet coat. I didn't say a word to the driver. I couldn't. My brain was still trying to figure out whether I'd been recruited into a cult or promoted to the kind of job that gets dramatized in courtroom TV shows.

When I got back to my apartment—small, uneven-floored, and smelling faintly of leftover noodles—I didn't turn on the lights. Just kicked off my shoes, shrugged off my hoodie, and dropped onto the couch like I'd been unplugged.

After a few minutes, I dragged myself to my desk.

Pulled out a notebook I'd been using mostly for grocery lists and unpaid to-do items, and flipped to a fresh page.

Things I Know About My New Job:

-There's money. A lot of it.

-I'm not allowed to say where it comes from.

-It involves "business entities" and "digital signatures" and probably the occasional tax evasion loophole.

-Lucien is moving into my neighborhood.

-I may be a money mule with a PDF.

-Apparently, I'm "invisible in all the right ways."

-God help me, I said yes.

I stared at the page for a long time.

Then scribbled under it: Am I insane? Or is this how capitalism works now?

I closed the notebook.

Brushed my teeth.

Didn't eat dinner. My appetite had been replaced by adrenaline and mild dread.

When I finally got into bed, the ceiling stared back at me like it was waiting for a confession.

I lay there, arms folded across my chest, blanket tucked under my legs like a burrito of denial, trying to convince myself this was all totally, absolutely fine.

I mean, it looked legitimate.

Lucien had documents. Charts. Graphs. A folder. Real criminals don't use folders, right?

Besides, he had a fireplace. And a symmetrical face. You can't scam someone with that much bone structure. It's too on the nose.

I rolled over. Rolled back.

Ten thousand a month. I wouldn't even need to take editing gigs anymore. No more lotion monologues. No more emailing résumés into the void. No more Doug breathing down my neck.

I sighed.

"Totally fine," I whispered.

Then immediately rolled over again and stared harder at the ceiling like it might give me moral clarity.

It didn't.

Lucien showed up the next day at exactly 10:00 a.m.

Not a minute late. Not a second early. Like he'd scheduled his arrival with a sundial and divine permission.

I opened the door in a clean hoodie and the least-wrinkled jeans I could find. He stood there looking like the inside of a cologne ad—casual cream sweater, straight cut trousers, sunglasses pushed up into his messily perfect blond hair, smile warm enough to melt criminal charges.

"Ready?" he asked.

Not even a good morning. Just that. Ready? No. Not in the slightest.

But I nodded anyway. "Sure."

We took a car—less luxury than yesterday's ride but still nicer than anything I'd ever sat in that didn't involve ride-share surge pricing. Lucien chatted on and off, mostly pleasant small talk about the weather, the city, an espresso shop he liked that I definitely couldn't afford. He asked me if I liked pastries, like this was a date instead of an onboarding for whatever business-lite operation he was luring me into.

I just smiled and muttered, "Yeah, croissants are cool," like an idiot.

After about twenty minutes, we pulled up in front of a small building tucked between two yoga studios and a vegan donut shop. The kind of place with minimalist signage and tall windows—vague enough to be anything. Maybe a design studio. Maybe a tax haven.

We stepped inside.

It was clean, quiet, and full of neutral tones. A few sleek desks. A receptionist who didn't look up when we walked in. A glass-walled office in the back with exactly one plant and a desktop computer that looked untouched.

Lucien turned to me with a light smile. "This is one of the businesses you'll be involved with. A small consulting firm. Mostly digital operations. It processes inbound revenue from multiple vendors."

I nodded slowly, trying to absorb the layout, the vibe, the fact that none of it looked remotely busy. "Uh-huh. Consulting."

I caught maybe three percent of what he said next.

Because as he walked me around the space, explaining the structure—subsidiary holdings, something about licensing—my brain completely short-circuited. The man gestured like a movie star giving a TED Talk. The way he moved, the way his mouth shaped words—was illegal. His cardigan sleeves were pushed up just enough to reveal forearms that looked sculpted by divine intention.

I blinked. Lost the thread. Tried to refocus.

"…and this file is under the umbrella of a holding company we maintain in Zurich, but you won't need to deal with that directly," Lucien was saying, gesturing toward a screen with charts I had zero context for.

"Mhm," I said, definitely not listening. My eyes briefly locked on his jawline when he turned. Sharp. Unforgiving. Like the truth I wasn't ready to hear.

"I know this sounds dense," he said, glancing back at me. "You're zoning out a bit."

"What? No." I blinked too fast. "I'm just processing. This is… a lot of logistics."

He tilted his head, clearly unconvinced. His smile curved, amused.

"Take your time," he said softly. "There's no rush."

Easy for him to say. He looked like calm was his default setting. Like nothing could touch him, not even his own mystery.

He walked me into the back office, started showing me the login process for some "light data tracking," and mentioned something about authorization keys.

I tried. I really did. But every time he leaned over, my brain made a quiet dial-up modem noise and turned into static.

He smelled faintly like bergamot. His hair glinted in the fluorescent lighting like it didn't belong in this reality. And the way he spoke—measured, intelligent, but never giving you quite enough to pin him down—felt like being slowly hypnotized by someone you already wanted to trust too much.

"So," he said, bringing me back to Earth, "what do you think so far?"

I blinked hard. "About the… business?"

"Yes."

"Right. It's… very clean."

He smiled wider. "That's the point."

And I suddenly felt like I wasn't looking at an office. Or a consulting firm. Or a business walkthrough.

I was standing in the middle of a stage, and Lucien was directing the whole scene—smiling through the act, watching to see if I'd keep saying my lines.

I smiled back, but inside, I was wondering: How do you stay suspicious of someone when you're too busy watching their mouth move?

"So," I said, trying to steady my voice, "what exactly do you need me to do? Like… day-to-day?"

Lucien looked up from the sleek glass desk like I'd asked something simple, reasonable. Something harmless.

"You'll be listed as a passive executive partner in a handful of companies," he said smoothly, "mostly by name, sometimes by digital signature. We'll run operations through the accounts you authorize. Occasionally you'll have to approve transfers, review statements, confirm some wire activity, that sort of thing."

"Wire activity."

"Standard routing. Not complicated. It'll all be explained in your access dashboard." He gestured to the laptop he'd logged into earlier. "Think of yourself as… a financial intermediary."

"That's vague enough to sound legal and get me arrested."

Lucien smiled like I'd said something endearing. "You're not doing anything illegal, Reed."

That's exactly what someone doing something illegal would say.

"You'll just be… letting capital breathe."

I squinted. "Did you just describe money laundering like it was a yoga class?"

He let out a quiet laugh, then glanced at his phone. "I need to make a quick call. Give me five minutes?"

"Sure," I said, too quickly. "I'll just… explore the inspiring world of financial dashboards."

He stepped out of the office with the quiet grace of a man who had absolutely nothing to hide, leaving me alone with a laptop, a silent room, and rising anxiety.

I sat down. Waited a beat.

Then opened a new tab.

Google: "What does a financial intermediary actually do?"

First result: 'A middle agent facilitating transactions between two parties, often between lenders and borrowers.'

Okay. Vague. Possibly me.

Second result: 'Can include roles in banking, insurance, and real estate.' Still fine. That sounded real.

Third result: 'In some cases, shell companies are used as intermediaries to mask capital flow between offshore entities and domestic recipients.'

I stared at that one for a long time.

Then opened another tab.

"How to tell if your job is laundering money."

Result one: 'Are you being paid large sums to do very little?'

Result two: 'Do you not fully understand what your company actually sells?'

Result three: 'Is the person hiring you suspiciously attractive?'

I slammed the laptop shut with the grace of a panicking raccoon.

This was fine.

Totally, absolutely fine.

I stared at the blank wall across from me, tried not to sweat through my hoodie, and repeated the only mantra that made sense:

I said yes. There's no backing out now. And besides…

He said it was legal.

And have you seen his face?

Lucien returned fifteen minutes later, sliding back into the office with the same casual elegance you'd expect from someone returning from a five-star facial and not—probably—an encrypted phone call to a shell corporation in the Maldives.

He held a large matte-black shopping bag in one hand. It had no logo, which somehow made it more expensive. The kind of bag that didn't crinkle when moved and probably cost more than a week's worth of groceries.

"This," he said, placing it gently on the desk, "is your uniform for tonight."

I blinked. "Tonight?"

"We're going out. To celebrate your first day. Consider it part of your onboarding."

"Celebrate what?" I asked. "My moral flexibility?"

He smiled. "Your new career."

He gestured toward the hallway. "There's a restroom down the corridor. Go change. I'll wait."

I opened the bag. Inside was a neatly folded button-up shirt—soft, light blue, clearly tailored—and a pair of black trousers, tailored but relaxed in cut, the kind of fit that said wealthy but not trying too hard. They weren't tight. They weren't dramatic. Just expensive-looking, like they came with instructions not to spill anything cheaper than wine.

No price tags. No visible brand. Just that smooth, too-perfect luxury fabric you could feel without touching.

"This feels illegal," I muttered.

"You're welcome," Lucien replied.

The bathroom was minimal. Modern. Everything smelled like peppermint and perfection.

I changed.

The shirt fit too well. The pants hugged exactly where they were supposed to. It was like being wrapped in anxiety and wealth at the same time.

I ran my fingers through my hair, stared at my reflection, and gave myself a look that said, don't be weird.

Then I stepped out.

Lucien was waiting just outside the door, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up the moment I appeared. And smiled.

"Oh, good," he said, stepping forward, closing the distance like it wasn't a big deal. "Almost perfect."

He reached out before I could ask what he meant.

His fingers tugged lightly at the hem of my shirt, untucking it just enough from the waistband of the pants to look deliberate—effortless, slightly undone, expensive in the way only very rich people ever manage to be.

"There," he said softly, smoothing the fabric just once.

I was no longer breathing.

Lucien was taller than I remembered. Broader up close. He smelled faintly of something warm—amber and cedar, like a fireplace you weren't invited to. His chest was right there. His hands were right there. And I didn't know how shirts had become so overwhelming until mine was being adjusted by a man who probably had abs that could file taxes.

He didn't linger. He stepped back a beat later, smiling again—completely unaffected.

But I wasn't. I exhaled, hard, like I'd just come up from underwater.

"Oh," I said, trying to play it cool, which came out sounding more like oh no.

Lucien chuckled. "You look perfect."

I nodded, pretending that was normal. That I was normal. That I wasn't currently experiencing a gay nervous breakdown in designer pants.

"Let's go," he said.

I followed.

Because what else could I do?

When the devil hands you bespoke clothing and opens a door to a fancy dinner, you walk through it.

Even if your lungs are still trying to reboot.