CHAPTER FIFTEEN – LUCIAN
The boardroom emptied in record time, the executives whispering as they escaped. Lucian stayed seated, fingers drumming once against the table before he stood.
"Do you ever smile in these meetings?" Silas drawled from his usual spot near the door.
Lucian didn't look at him. "You're still here. Why?"
"Because one day, I'm going to witness you crack a joke, and I want front-row seats."
Lucian adjusted his cufflinks and strode out, Silas trailing after him.
The family estate was quiet when he arrived, a sharp contrast to the ruthless energy of the city. The moment he stepped inside, the air seemed lighter and warmer.
His mother was in the lounge, curled on the couch with a book. She smiled when she saw him.
"Lucian," she said softly. "You're home early."
"Early?" He glanced at the grandfather clock. It was past eight.
"For you, this is early," she teased, standing to kiss his cheek.
"I had enough meetings for one day."
She studied his face, motherly intuition narrowing her gaze. "Something's bothering you."
Lucian didn't answer, just tucked his hands into his pocket.
Laughter rang out from the hallway, and a blur of movement shot toward him.
"Luc!"
He caught his sister mid-run, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. "Aurora," he said, a rare warmth slipping into his voice.
"You didn't say you were coming home tonight!" she accused, swatting his shoulder playfully.
"Then it wouldn't be a surprise," he replied, setting her down.
Aurora grinned, her hair bouncing as she moved toward their mother. She was the only one who could soften him this easily his Achilles heel, though he'd never admit it aloud.
Dinner was lively, as it always was when Aurora was around. His father sat at the head of the table, the picture of calm authority, listening to Aurora's chatter with a faint smile.
When she finally excused herself to study for an exam, silence settled over the room.
"You've been distracted lately," his father said, voice even but sharp. "Something on your mind?"
Lucian sipped his wine. "Work."
His father didn't buy it. "You work every day. This is different."
Lucian's jaw tightened. "I'm handling it."
His father held his gaze for a long moment before nodding. "Good. Just don't let it make you careless."
"I won't."
Later, in his penthouse.
Perched like a jewel on the crown of the tallest skyscraper in the city, the penthouse was more than a home it was a statement, an empire in the clouds. At night, it seemed to float above the city lights, a glass sanctuary that glowed softly against the darkness, as if the building itself was alive. During the day, the floor-to-ceiling windows turned into a theater screen, showcasing the ever-shifting panorama of the world below traffic like streams of light, people like busy ants, the skyline like a jagged painting.
The entrance alone was enough to make anyone feel small. A private elevator silent and sleek opened directly into the foyer, which was wrapped in white marble with veins of gold that looked almost liquid under the soft recessed lighting. The moment the doors slid open, a rush of carefully curated air greeted you: faintly citrusy, with notes of cedarwood and something indefinably expensive. A sculpture, a massive piece of twisted metal imported from Italy dominated the center of the foyer. It was the kind of art you weren't sure whether to look at or walk around, the kind that probably had its own feature in an architecture magazine.
To the left, a hallway led to the main living area, and this was where the sheer scale of the place became obvious. It was a single, sweeping room that seemed to go on forever, with walls of glass on three sides. Sunlight flooded the space during the day, spilling over the herringbone oak floors and highlighting the craftsmanship of every single piece of furniture. The color palette was an intentional mix of warm neutrals and rich textures cream cashmere throws, sand-colored leather sofas, dark wood accent tables, and a rug so soft it might as well have been woven from clouds.
The centerpiece was the fireplace not the rustic, crackling kind, but a sleek, linear strip of dancing flames set into a black marble frame. Above it, an abstract painting stretched nearly to the ceiling, its swirls of color echoing the skyline beyond the glass. A grand piano black, polished to a mirror shine sat nearby, as much a statement piece as a musical instrument. Even if the billionaire never played, it was there for guests, for the ambiance, for the suggestion of sophistication.
One corner of the room was dedicated to a bar, a masterpiece in its own right. The counter was made of backlit onyx, glowing amber in the low light, and behind it, floor-to-ceiling shelves displayed rare bottles of liquor like artifacts in a museum. Crystal decanters and glasses sparkled on mirrored trays. There were no cluttered corners here everything was arranged with precision, like the entire place was waiting for the pages of a magazine photoshoot.
From the living room, the space flowed seamlessly into the dining area, where a table of polished walnut sat beneath a chandelier that looked like a frozen rainstorm hundreds of hand-blown glass droplets suspended at different heights. The table could seat twelve comfortably, but it was positioned in a way that didn't feel formal or stiff. Floor-to-ceiling drapes framed the view beyond, but they were motorized, gliding open at the touch of a button to reveal the private terrace outside.
The terrace was arguably the crown jewel of the penthouse. Spanning nearly the entire length of the apartment, it offered an unobstructed, 360-degree view of the city. In the morning, it was bathed in golden sunlight, a perfect spot for breakfast with the skyline waking up around you. At night, it became a private observatory, the city stretching out like a blanket of stars. There were plush loungers, a dining area, a fire pit, and even a small infinity-edge pool that seemed to spill right into the horizon. On warm evenings, the billionaire could host cocktail parties here, the sound of clinking glasses mingling with the hum of the city below.
Inside, the kitchen was a work of art. It wasn't just functional it was designed to impress. Marble countertops, state-of-the-art appliances in matte black and stainless steel, and a massive island with seating for six made it as much a social space as a culinary one. Hidden compartments kept even the utensils out of sight, maintaining a sense of sleek perfection. A wine cellar was tucked just beyond, temperature-controlled and holding hundreds of bottles, some rare, some impossible to find outside of auction houses.
The private quarters were no less breathtaking. The master suite took up an entire wing of the penthouse, with its own living area, fireplace, and private balcony. The bed was massive, dressed in crisp white linens, framed by an upholstered headboard that stretched to the ceiling. Everything here was designed for quiet luxury from the plush rugs underfoot to the blackout curtains that promised uninterrupted sleep.
But the bathroom was where extravagance turned into theater. A free-standing soaking tub sat in front of a window with a view that made bathing feel like an event. The shower was a glass-walled rain shower big enough for two, with multiple settings and hidden speakers that could pipe in music. Every fixture was brushed gold, every surface polished stone. A separate dressing room no, an entire dressing suite stretched beyond, lined with glass-front wardrobes, a vanity with perfect lighting, and even a climate-controlled section for the billionaire's suits and shoes.
Guest bedrooms, there were at least three were equally elegant, each designed in its own subtle color palette, each with an en-suite bathroom. A private home office overlooked the city, with a desk positioned directly against the window so work could be done with the skyline as a backdrop. The office shelves were lined with rare books and awards, a reminder of the man (or woman) who had built this empire.
And then there was the entertainment level yes, level. A floating staircase with glass railings led down to a lower floor that housed a private theater, complete with reclining leather seats and a screen that spanned an entire wall. There was also a private gym that looked like something out of a high-end wellness retreat, with top-of-the-line equipment, a sauna, and a meditation nook. A small but luxurious spa room stood ready for in-home massages, facials, or whatever treatment was needed.
Technology was woven into the fabric of the penthouse. The lights, the climate, the curtains, the music....everything could be controlled from a single tablet or even by voice. Security was discreet but impenetrable: biometric locks, private elevator codes, and cameras hidden in places you wouldn't think to look.
But beyond the architecture, beyond the art and the furniture and the technology, there was a feeling to the place. A sense of calm power. This wasn't just a residence; it was a fortress in the sky, a reminder that its owner had risen above the world and now watched it from above. Every detail whispered of wealth, but not loudly,this was not ostentation, but confidence. The kind of confidence that didn't need to prove anything to anyone, because it had already won.
Standing in the middle of that penthouse, you couldn't help but feel small and awed, but also strangely inspired. It wasn't just beautiful. It was aspirational. It made you want to be better, richer, stronger just to deserve a space like this.
Lucian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights glittering beneath him.
"She was too young to be in that kind of danger," he said aloud, not realizing Silas had entered until the man spoke.
"You mean the girl." Silas leaned against the doorway. "Still thinking about her?"
Lucian didn't answer right away.
"She was set up, Silas. Whoever planned it didn't care what happened to her. I'm not letting that go."
Silas studied him. "This is more than guilt."
Lucian finally looked at him. "Maybe it is."
And for the first time, Silas didn't tease.