Elara's POV
The evening air clung to my skin as I stepped out of my family's house for what felt like the last time. My suitcase wheels scraped faintly against the pavement, and each sound was a reminder that I was walking into something I could never take back. The house behind me stood like a silent witness, the yellow light from the living room spilling faintly onto the driveway.
I had grown up inside those walls, with laughter and tension braided together like the pattern of an old rug. My mother's voice still echoed in my ears—sharp when she was angry, warm when she was proud, careful when she was hiding something. My father's… well, memories of him were like faded photographs, harder to hold onto, but still tucked somewhere deep inside me. Tonight, I was leaving all that behind for a new life. One that wasn't really mine.
The black sedan parked outside looked like something pulled straight from a billionaire's catalog—sleek, polished to the point of reflecting the cloudy night sky. Its tinted windows gave nothing away. The driver, a tall man in a dark suit, stepped forward with the precision of someone who'd been trained to be invisible yet attentive.
"Miss Elara," he said with a bow of his head before opening the rear passenger door.
I could feel eyes on me from the open curtain upstairs—my mother, no doubt, trying to piece together who exactly was picking me up and why. I had told them I was moving in with someone I loved. The words had rolled off my tongue so smoothly it scared me. If lies were currency, I had just bought myself an entire mansion.
Sliding into the car, the smell of leather and something faintly masculine wrapped around me. Lucien's world already felt different—controlled, expensive, deliberate.
The driver closed the door behind me, and the sedan glided out of the driveway with barely a whisper of sound. The engine's purr was so smooth, I could almost believe we were floating. The silence between me and the driver was thick. No music, no small talk. Just the low hum of the car and the occasional flash of streetlights cutting through the darkness.
I stared out of the tinted glass, watching the city fade into a quieter part of town. The roads widened, the buildings stretched taller, and the streetlamps became less frequent. Soon, the massive silhouette of a gate loomed ahead—black wrought iron with intricate gold detailing, guarded by two men in matching suits.
The driver slowed, rolled down his window, and gave a curt nod. Without a word, the gates opened, parting like the entrance to another world.
Lucien Sinclair's world.
The driveway curved upward, lined with perfectly manicured hedges and glowing pathway lights. We passed a small fountain, its water glittering under the moonlight like liquid diamonds. At the top of the slope, the penthouse stood—a towering modern glass structure, every light inside glowing warm against the night.
When the car came to a stop, the front door opened before I could even touch my suitcase. Two staff members—one a middle-aged woman in a crisp black uniform, the other a younger man who looked like he belonged in a fashion ad—approached silently.
"Good evening, Miss," the woman greeted with a small smile. "Mr. Blackwell is expecting you."
Expecting me. The words felt heavy.
Inside, the penthouse was… breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the glittering city skyline. The floors were a pale marble that reflected the soft glow of recessed lighting. Every piece of furniture looked curated for both style and intimidation—sleek leather couches, a glass coffee table, art pieces that probably cost more than my entire family's annual income.
Lucien was standing by the window, his back to me. He wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a dark vest that somehow made him look even more unapproachable. He didn't turn until the staff had taken my luggage upstairs.
"You're late," he said simply, his voice a deep, even baritone that gave nothing away.
"I didn't realize we had a curfew," I replied, keeping my tone neutral.
His eyes flicked to me—cold, assessing—and then he gestured toward the staircase. "Come. I'll show you where you'll be staying."
The hallway upstairs was quieter, more intimate, with soft lighting and thick carpet underfoot. He stopped at the end of the hall, opening a door that led to a spacious bedroom.
"This will be your room," he said.
It was beautiful—neutral tones, a king-sized bed dressed in white linen, a walk in closet,a small sitting area by the window. The bed dominated the space, massive and inviting, but I didn't think twice about it. I assumed this was just my space and he had his elsewhere.
"Dinner will be served in twenty minutes," he added, already turning to leave.
Dinner was a formal affair—long table, candles, silver cutlery that looked like it had never been used. The food was exquisite, but the air between us was taut, like a wire stretched too tight. He asked no personal questions, and I gave no unnecessary answers.
When I finally went back upstairs, the bedroom door was closed. I pushed it open—and froze.
Lucien was inside.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through something on his phone like he owned the air I was breathing. He didn't even glance up.
"This is my room," he said, as if reading my thoughts.
I blinked. "Your room?"
"Our room," he corrected lazily. "For appearances, Elara. The staff can't suspect anything. We share this space."
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "You could have mentioned that earlier."
"You didn't ask," he said, finally meeting my gaze.
I opened my mouth to argue, but my eyes betrayed me—he had taken off the vest, and his shirt was unbuttoned halfway, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbone and the start of sculpted muscle. He stood and walked past me toward the closet, and I caught the faint scent of his cologne—clean, expensive, dangerous.
"I'll take the couch," I muttered, heading toward the corner.
"There's no couch," he said flatly. "Only the bed."
I turned sharply. "You're joking."
He wasn't.
The silence stretched, heavy with something unspoken. I moved to the far side of the bed and sat stiffly, clutching the edge of the blanket. He switched off the main light, leaving only the warm glow of a bedside lamp.
At some point, I shifted to lie down, but I could feel the weight of his presence beside me, the faint heat radiating through the sheets. I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come.
Then I felt him move.
He leaned slightly toward me, his voice low, almost brushing my ear. "You keep looking at me like you're afraid of something, Elara."
I opened my eyes. "Maybe I am."
Our faces were close now—too close. I could see the flecks of silver in his dark eyes, the way his jaw tightened. My heart raced, my breath shallow. For a moment, I thought he might close the distance between us.
But he didn't.
Instead, he leaned back, his expression unreadable. "Sleep. We have a long day tomorrow."
I turned away, clutching the blanket tighter. But long after his breathing evened out, I was still wide awake—haunted by the almost that never happened