Lucien didn't kiss like a man who had all the time in the world. He kissed like he was losing it.
And maybe he was. Maybe we both were.
His mouth moved over mine with a kind of reverence masked in hunger. I wasn't thinking anymore. I wasn't rational. I was reacting — body first, mind second, heart somewhere in between.
The desk beneath me creaked faintly as I shifted closer, my legs still wrapped around his waist. His hand had slid beneath my blouse, fingers grazing the bare skin of my lower back like he was trying to memorize it.
"Lucien," I gasped against his mouth.
He stilled.
Just for a breath.
His forehead pressed to mine. His hands flattened against my ribs like he was grounding himself. Or maybe holding himself back.
"You don't know what I'm capable of," he said quietly.
"I'm starting to get an idea."
His eyes met mine. That dangerous glint — part warning, part invitation — it was back. God, that look.
He let out a breath that could've passed for a laugh in another life. "You're going to complicate everything."
"You already did."
Lucien pulled back slightly, just enough to look at me. Really look. "You're still not scared."
"I am," I said honestly. "But not of you."
Something shifted in his expression. That flicker of control he always wore like armor cracked — just a little. He stepped away, and I exhaled like I'd been holding in something more than just breath.
"I need you to understand something," he said, voice tight as he dragged a hand through his hair. "This thing between us? It doesn't get to exist in the open. It can't. You work for me. I run this company. One misstep and—"
"I know," I said softly.
His jaw clenched.
"I'm not asking you to quit. I'm not asking you to pretend this is a fairy tale. I'm just asking you to be sure. Because once we cross this line, there's no going back."
"We already crossed it."
Lucien didn't argue.
He walked to the window, staring out like the skyline held answers. Then he turned back to me, eyes unreadable again. "No one finds out."
"I'm not planning to announce it in the break room."
He smiled, barely. "You're not scared of me, but you're reckless."
"I'm interested."
He raised a brow.
"In you."
Lucien crossed the room in two strides, and suddenly I was back on my feet, his hands gripping my waist like he didn't trust himself to let go.
"Then these are my rules," he said against my skin. "We keep this quiet. No drama. No games. You belong to me when I say so. And when I'm done—"
I flinched. Just slightly.
He noticed.
"When I'm done," he said more carefully, "you'll know. But until then…"
His lips brushed my ear.
"You're mine."
My throat dried. My pulse raced. I nodded, unable to find words that didn't feel like surrender.
"Say it," he breathed.
"I'm yours."
He kissed me again. Short. Possessive. Final.
---
I didn't sleep that night.
How could I?
Lucien Vale wasn't just under my skin — he was rewriting me.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the way he looked at me. Like I was the answer to a question he wasn't supposed to ask. Like he was daring himself to want something more than just power.
The bracelet on my wrist still gleamed like a secret I hadn't yet confessed.
And when I woke up the next morning, my phone lit up with a single text.
From: Unknown
> My car. 7:45. Don't be late.
My heart skidded.
No good morning. No name.
Just instructions.
---
At 7:44, the black car pulled up in front of my building.
The driver didn't say anything. Just opened the door. I slid into the seat and found a sealed envelope waiting for me on the armrest. My name, in neat, exact handwriting.
Inside was a simple note.
There's a gala tonight. You're coming with me. Dress code: mine.
And beneath it — a card for a high-end boutique with an appointment already made.
The audacity.
The arrogance.
The thrill.
I tried to scowl. Failed.
---
By 5:30, I was standing in a private dressing room with a stylist who knew way too much about my measurements. Everything fit like it had been tailored weeks ago.
The dress was sleek. Black. Dangerous. Like something a villain's girl would wear when she knew the whole room was watching.
And I would be watched. Because Lucien Vale wasn't the kind of man who arrived quietly.
---
7:55PM.
The gala buzzed with tension and wealth. The kind of crowd that measured power not in decibels but in silence — sharp glances, subtle nods, whispered names with consequences.
I hadn't even stepped through the doors before I felt it — that shift in atmosphere, like a thousand invisible hands were pulling strings behind chandeliers and champagne flutes.
Then I saw him.
Lucien Vale in a black suit that made lesser men look unfinished. He turned the moment I entered, like he'd felt me arrive.
His gaze swept over me. Slow. Possessive.
I didn't need a mirror to know I was blushing.
He moved through the crowd without breaking eye contact. Everyone parted for him. The king in a room of pawns.
And when he reached me, he didn't say hello.
He simply leaned in and whispered, "You wore it for me."
I didn't get a chance to respond before he took my hand, brought it to his lips, and brushed a kiss over my knuckles.
Every camera in the room turned.
And I realized — I wasn't just with Lucien Vale.
I was his.
And the world was about to find out.