I woke up to silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that feels like the world is holding its breath—waiting for something to shatter.
I stared at the ceiling for a long time. Long enough to feel the edges of last night bleed into this morning. Lucien's voice still lingered in the air, "I'm worse than the one you're hoping I'm not."
Worse. And yet I still got in the car.
Still let him look at me like he already knew the ending of our story—and was just waiting for me to catch up.
I hated him.
I hated how much I didn't.
---
The office felt colder than usual.
Even with the sun pouring through the glass, Westbrooke Holdings had this way of swallowing warmth whole. Or maybe that was just me.
The morning passed like molasses—slow and thick, each second dragging behind it the weight of unspoken thoughts and hidden things.
Lucien didn't appear.
Not in the hallway. Not in the elevators. Not in the shadows I swore moved when I wasn't looking.
But he didn't have to.
Because he left something in my office.
A box.
Small. Black. Unmarked.
I stared at it like it might bite.
Inside was a key. Plain. Silver. Sharp at the edges.
No note.
No explanation.
Just a key.
And that was enough to set my blood on fire.
---
By lunch, my pulse hadn't slowed.
I texted him once.
Alina: What's the key for?
No reply.
Not for hours.
When my phone finally lit up, it was with coordinates.
Lucien Vale: Use it tonight. Bring nothing but your name.
I should've said no.
I should've thrown the key out the window.
Instead, I screenshot the coordinates and locked my office door.
And tried not to think about what kind of man gives a woman a key to something she didn't ask for—and knows she'll still use it.
---
The building was downtown.
Tall. Industrial. Beautiful in a brutalist kind of way.
The key worked without hesitation.
One turn and the heavy door clicked open, revealing dim lights and polished floors and a private elevator that required a fingerprint and a passcode I didn't have to enter.
It knew me.
Which meant he had made sure it would.
The elevator took me to the top floor—of course it did.
The penthouse was all glass and concrete, sleek lines and deliberate shadows. No art. No clutter. Just curated power and dangerous quiet.
And him.
Lucien stood by the bar, two fingers of bourbon in hand, watching me like he was waiting to see what I'd do with the trap I'd walked into.
"Welcome home," he said.
I didn't answer.
I just held up the key.
"What is this?"
He didn't blink. "Insurance."
"For you or for me?"
Lucien smiled. "Yes."
---
We didn't talk after that.
He poured a second drink and handed it to me.
We sat in silence. Heavy, tense, magnetic.
The kind that doesn't need conversation.
The kind that already is one.
Eventually, I said, "Why me?"
He didn't pretend not to understand.
Lucien turned his head slightly, eyes tracing my face like he was trying to find the flaw that explained me.
"You weren't supposed to matter," he said.
My heart stuttered.
"But you walked into that club like you didn't need anyone to notice you. That's the fastest way to make sure I do."
He stepped closer.
"I ruin things, Alina. Good things. Simple things."
"Then ruin me," I said.
And meant it.
---
He kissed me like it was punishment.
Like I'd done something terribly right.
There was no hesitation this time. No testing boundaries. Just a firestorm pressed to my mouth and hands that gripped my hips like they were answers to questions he didn't know he was asking.
Lucien didn't touch like a man trying to possess.
He touched like one trying to remember.
The wall met my back.
My breath left my lungs.
My mind screamed danger.
But my body—
My body wanted to be destroyed.
And if he was going to break me, I wanted to be the one who handed him the hammer.
---
Later, when the city lights flickered against the glass and the silence settled again, he spoke into the space between us.
"I wasn't supposed to want this."
I didn't respond.
Didn't need to.
Because the truth was already sprawled across the floor in discarded clothes and bruised lips and the echo of my name in his mouth.
Lucien turned toward the windows, one hand raking through his hair.
"Things are going to get harder," he said. "The deeper you go, the harder it is to climb out."
"Then maybe I won't," I whispered.
And it was the first time I admitted it.
I didn't want out.
Not anymore.
---
By morning, he was gone.
No note.
No coffee.
Just the scent of him lingering in the pillows and the key still clutched in my hand like a promise I never should've accepted.
I let myself lie there a while.
Let myself feel the wrongness of how right it all felt.
Lucien Vale wasn't just dangerous.
He was addictive.
And I was already showing symptoms.
I got dressed slowly, every movement deliberate, like I could stall whatever was coming next.
But when I stepped into the elevator, my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You've been busy,Ms. Moreau.
I froze.
Another buzz.
Unknown Number: Be careful who you trust in this city. Not all devils wear suits.
My blood ran cold.
Because this one did.
And I'd just let him undress me.