The apartment Lucien had paid for suddenly felt wrong. Tainted. Everything in it had been chosen by him, purchased with money that might have been built on the ruins of what her father had destroyed. Ava stood in the parking lot after he drove away, Alexander's folder clutched in one hand, her phone in the other, and realized she couldn't go inside.
She called him back. He answered on the first ring.
"Changed your mind about needing time?" His voice was hollow, exhausted.
"I can't stay here," she said quietly. "In the apartment you chose, surrounded by things you bought. I need... I don't know what I need, but it's not this."
Silence stretched between them. Then: "I'm coming back."
"Lucien—"
"I'm already turning around." She heard the car's engine in the background. "You're not staying alone tonight. Not after what I just told you."
Five minutes later, his car pulled back into the parking lot. But instead of letting her back inside, he just held the passenger door open in silent invitation. Ava got in without argument, too emotionally exhausted to fight about anything else tonight.
They drove in silence through Manhattan streets that were still busy despite the late hour. Ava watched the city lights blur past her window, her mind replaying every revelation from the past hour. Her father—the man she'd built her entire moral framework around, the memory she'd used to justify her pride and stubbornness—had been a thief. A gambling addict. Someone who'd stolen from a partner who trusted him, then threatened to frame that partner when caught.
Everything she'd believed about herself, about where she came from, about the principles her father had supposedly instilled in her—all of it was built on a lie.
"Where are we going?" she asked finally, breaking the heavy silence.
"My place." Lucien's voice was flat, carefully neutral. "Not the penthouse I use for entertaining clients. My actual home."
She'd never been to his personal residence. In all the months of their complicated relationship, he'd kept that space private, separate from the controlled environments where he conducted business and maintained his carefully constructed image.
The building was in Tribeca, modern and exclusive in the way only Manhattan's most expensive real estate could be. They rode the private elevator to the top floor in silence, standing on opposite sides of the small space as if physical distance could somehow mitigate the emotional devastation of the evening.
When the elevator doors opened directly into his penthouse, Ava stepped into a space that was so quintessentially Lucien it almost hurt. Floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the city. Minimalist furniture in blacks and grays, expensive but sparse, creating an atmosphere of cold elegance rather than warmth. Original artwork on the walls—pieces she recognized from galleries, worth fortunes but chosen more for investment value than emotional connection.
It was beautiful in a austere, unwelcoming way. A fortress in the sky, designed to keep the world at arm's length.
"It's very you," she said quietly, setting Alexander's folder on the nearest surface.
"Cold and uninviting?" A ghost of bitter humor touched his voice. "Yes, I've been told that before."
He moved to the bar and poured himself three fingers of scotch, downing it in one swallow before pouring another. Ava watched him, seeing the tension in his shoulders, the exhaustion in the way he moved, the weight of revealed truths pressing down on him.
"You should eat something," he said without looking at her. "I can have food delivered—"
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat anyway. You've had multiple shocks tonight, your blood sugar is probably—"
"Lucien." She cut through his attempts at practical problem-solving. "Stop trying to take care of me. After what you just told me, after admitting you orchestrated everything as revenge, you don't get to slip back into the role of concerned protector."
He flinched as if she'd struck him. "You're right. Of course you're right."
The silence that followed was suffocating. They stood in his expensive, empty penthouse—her processing revelations about her father, him dealing with the aftermath of finally telling the truth—and both seemed unsure how to navigate this new, terrible honesty between them.
"I want to read Alexander's folder," Ava said finally. "Compare his version of events to yours. Figure out what's actually true."
"Of course." Lucien gestured toward the folder she'd set down. "I won't stop you from seeking verification. I've lied to you enough—by omission if not commission. You deserve to make up your own mind about what to believe."
The admission felt significant. He wasn't trying to control her access to information, wasn't threatening or manipulating or using his usual tools of influence. Just accepting that she needed to verify his story independently.
Ava picked up the folder and moved to the sofa, curling into one corner like she could make herself small enough to disappear. The leather was cold beneath her, matching the overall atmosphere of emotional isolation that permeated his home.
Inside the folder, Alexander's documentation told a different story than Lucien's—but not as different as she'd expected. Yes, there were financial irregularities at Drake Industries. Yes, her father had been involved in questionable transactions. But Alexander's narrative framed it as Richard Drake manipulating his partner, using David Lane's technical expertise while setting him up to take the fall for financial improprieties.
The evidence was compelling but circumstantial. Bank records that could be interpreted multiple ways. Witness statements from people who had their own agendas and biases. A narrative that was internally consistent but relied heavily on assumption and interpretation rather than hard proof.
Just like Lucien's version.
"It's not conclusive," she said after reading through everything twice. "Your evidence shows my father had gambling debts and made questionable financial decisions. His evidence shows your father was manipulating company records and blaming his partner. They're both compelling narratives built on the same basic facts."
"Welcome to the truth," Lucien said bitterly from his position by the windows. "It's rarely as clear-cut as we want it to be. People are complicated, motivations are murky, and most situations involve everyone making terrible choices rather than clear villains and heroes."
"So I'll never really know what happened." The realization settled over her like a weight. "I'll never know if my father was the victim your father destroyed or the criminal who destroyed yours. I'll just have to live with uncertainty."
"Or you choose which version you can live with," Lucien suggested quietly. "Which narrative allows you to move forward with your life rather than staying trapped in the past."
"Is that what you did?" She looked at him standing silhouetted against the city lights, a dark figure in an even darker space. "Chose a version of events and committed to it regardless of uncertainty?"
"I chose to believe my father's suicide note. That he felt responsible for driving your father to his death through harsh response to betrayal. Whether that betrayal was real or fabricated, I'll never know for certain." He turned to face her. "But I had to believe something to make sense of losing both my parents to the fallout of that partnership."
Ava understood. He'd built his entire adult life on a foundation of assumed truth—that her father had destroyed his family, that revenge was justified, that controlling her life was somehow evening cosmic scales. And now that foundation was revealed as potentially just as shaky as her assumptions about her father's integrity.
They were both operating on incomplete information, both committed to narratives that might be fundamentally flawed, both damaged by events they'd been too young to fully understand or prevent.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
Lucien's head snapped toward her. "What?"
"I'm sorry for what my father did. Whether it was embezzlement or just being in the wrong place at the wrong time, whether he was victim or villain—his actions contributed to your father's death. And I'm sorry you lost him that way."
The apology seemed to hit him harder than any accusation could have. She watched his carefully controlled expression crack, watched something raw and painful break through the walls he'd maintained even during his brutal honesty in the car.
"You don't need to apologize for your father's choices," he said, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. "Any more than I need to apologize for mine. We're not responsible for the sins of our parents."
"Aren't we?" Ava stood up and moved toward him, drawn by some impulse she didn't fully understand. "You've spent years trying to atone for or avenge what happened between them. I've built my entire identity around being the daughter of a man I thought was wronged. We're both carrying their sins whether we want to or not."
They stood facing each other near the windows, the city sprawling below them like evidence of how small and insignificant their family drama was in the grand scheme of things. But it didn't feel small. It felt enormous, overwhelming, like it had shaped every decision they'd both made for their entire adult lives.
"I don't know how to be with you now," Lucien admitted. "Knowing that you know everything. Knowing that you see me as the man who planned to destroy you as revenge rather than the man trying to save you out of guilt. I don't know how to navigate this honesty."
"Maybe we don't navigate it tonight," Ava suggested. "Maybe we just... exist in it for a while. Process what we've learned. Figure out what we believe and what we want."
He nodded slowly. "You should rest. It's been a long night."
"I don't think I can sleep."
"Then don't. But at least lie down. Let your body rest even if your mind won't." He gestured toward the hallway. "There's a guest room. Clean sheets, everything you might need."
The offer of a guest room felt significant. Not trying to coax her into his bed, not using the vulnerability of the moment to blur boundaries. Just offering her a safe space to process everything that had happened.
"What about you?" she asked.
"I'll be fine. I have work to do, calls to make. The business doesn't stop just because my personal life is imploding." His attempt at humor fell flat, but she appreciated the effort.
Ava let him lead her down the hallway to a bedroom that was more welcoming than the rest of the penthouse—softer colors, more comfortable furniture, evidence that this space had been designed for actual human habitation rather than just intimidating displays of wealth.
"There's clothing in the closet," Lucien said from the doorway. "Some things I had... prepared. In case you ever needed to stay here."
The admission that he'd prepared for her possible presence in his private space long before tonight was touching and disturbing in equal measure. More evidence of his obsessive planning, but also of hope that they might eventually reach a point where she would want to be here.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
He nodded and turned to leave, but her voice stopped him.
"Lucien?"
He paused in the doorway, his profile sharp against the hallway light. "Yes?"
"Why did you really bring me here instead of taking me home or letting me stay at the apartment? What are you afraid of?"
For a long moment, he didn't answer. Just stood there struggling with something he didn't want to admit. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear it.
"I can't let you out of my sight." The confession came out raw, stripped of all the careful control he usually maintained. "After Alexander Vance's interference, after telling you everything, after watching you process the truth about your father—I can't let you disappear into the night alone. I need to know you're safe, even if you hate me, even if this is the last time you let me protect you."
The honesty in his voice made her chest tighten. This wasn't about control or manipulation. This was about genuine fear that she might hurt herself processing the revelations, or that Alexander might use her vulnerable state to manipulate her further, or that he might never see her again if he let her walk away tonight.
"I'm not going to do anything stupid," she said softly.
"I know. But I need to see it for myself. Just for tonight. Tomorrow you can leave, you can process everything on your own terms, you can decide what you want to believe and who you want to trust. But tonight..." He turned to look at her fully, and the vulnerability in his dark eyes took her breath away. "Tonight, please just let me know you're here. Safe. Even if you can't stand the sight of me."
Ava looked at him—this complicated, damaged man who'd started watching her with the worst intentions and somehow ended up caring despite himself. Who'd just stripped away every lie and manipulation to show her the broken foundation their relationship was built on. Who was asking for nothing more than the knowledge that she was safe under his roof for one more night.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'll stay tonight."
Relief flooded his features, quickly masked but visible for a moment. "Thank you."
He left then, pulling the door partially closed to give her privacy. Ava sat on the edge of the bed in his guest room, surrounded by clothing he'd prepared for her presence, in his private fortress that he'd never let anyone else see, and tried to make sense of everything that had happened.
Her father might have been a criminal. Lucien's obsession had started as revenge. Their entire relationship was built on lies and manipulation and competing versions of a truth neither of them could fully prove.
And despite all of that, despite every rational reason to hate him, she found herself understanding why he'd brought her here. Why he needed to know she was close by, safe within his walls, for just one more night before everything potentially fell apart forever.
Because she needed it too. Needed to not be alone while processing revelations that shook the foundation of everything she'd believed about herself and her family. Needed the complicated comfort of being near someone who understood exactly how devastating the truth could be.
They were both broken by their fathers' choices. Both carrying sins that weren't theirs but shaped them anyway. Both trying to find a way forward through the ruins of narratives that had defined them.
And for tonight, at least, they would be broken together in his cold, minimalist fortress high above the city that had witnessed all their families' failures and sins.
End of Chapter 31
Next: Chapter 32 – "Morning Decisions"