Chapter 9 – The Devil You Can't Stand
(Lucien's POV)
Control.
It was the one thing I never lost.
Not in business. Not in war. Not in betrayal.
Not even when my own blood turned against me.
But lately—
Control felt… thinner.
Fragile.
I stood in the doorway of the study earlier that morning, watching the maids place the designer bags on the table while Aria stared at them like they were radioactive.
"For you," I told her.
No gratitude.
No softness.
Only defiance burning in her eyes.
I didn't look at her.
I simply spoke in that controlled, cold tone that made everyone in the room stiffen.
"Get dressed," I said. "And don't waste my time in proving yourself."
My eyes flicked toward Aria for only a second — unreadable, sharp, assessing.
Then I turned and walked out.
Just like that.
No explanation. No softness. No pause.
The door closed behind me with quiet finality.
Aria stared at it for a moment.
Then she slowly turned her attention to the maid standing awkwardly beside her, holding the expensive bags like they were explosives.
She snatched one from the maid's hands with a scoff.
"Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath.
The maid pretended not to hear.
Aria rolled her eyes as she dropped the bag onto the table and crossed her arms.
"You'd wake somebody up by splashing water on them?" she murmured, shaking her head. "Your mates are waking people up with kisses at least. Tsk. And you…"
She bent down and pulled the tissue paper from inside the bag with unnecessary aggression.
"Lousy," she continued.
More paper rustled loudly.
"Grumpy."
She yanked out the dress and held it up in front of her.
"Grandpa."
The maid's eyes widened.
Aria examined the dress — dark, elegant, structured, expensive.
And absolutely not her.
Her nose wrinkled in visible disgust.
She turned it around once.
Twice.
Then stared at it like it had personally offended her.
"No."
She shook her head immediately.
"No, no, no."
She dropped it onto the bed as if it burned her fingers.
"I reject this."
The maid blinked.
Aria placed her hands on her hips, pacing once in front of the bed.
"I managed it yesterday," she said firmly. "And not today. Please."
She picked up the dress again, squinting at it critically.
"Go return it to your boss."
The maid swallowed.
"And tell him," Aria added, lifting her chin slightly, "I want something more like me."
She gestured toward herself.
"This dress is awful."
She flung it lightly back onto the bed.
Silence filled the room.
The maid stood frozen, unsure whether she valued her job or her life more at this moment.
Aria noticed the hesitation and sighed dramatically.
"Oh please," she waved her off. "It's just clothes. He won't kill you."
Then she paused.
"…Probably."
The maid inhaled sharply.
Aria softened slightly — just slightly.
"Look, I'm not wearing that. It's not me. If he wants me to prove myself, fine. But I'm not doing it dressed like a villain's widow."
She crossed her arms again, stubbornness written all over her face.
"Take it back."
The maid carefully picked up the rejected dress like it was evidence from a crime scene as she walked toward the door.
Minutes after I returned to my own study, the maid reappeared.
She looked like she was approaching a firing squad.
I was seated in my leather chair, a book open in my hands — though I had not turned a single page.
"What is it?" I asked calmly.
She swallowed.
"B-Boss…"
I did not look up yet.
"Yes?"
"She… opened the bag."
My fingers paused lightly on the edge of the page.
"And?"
The maid inhaled shakily. "She started taking the dresses out one by one."
Now I looked at her.
"And?"
"She said… 'No.'"
Silence filled the room.
"She said, 'No, no, no. I reject this. I managed it yesterday, not today. Please, go return it to your boss and tell him I want something more like me. This dress is awful.'"
My jaw tightened.
But the maid wasn't finished.
"She scoffed before that too, boss. When you left earlier… she murmured…"
I leaned back slowly.
"Murmured what?"
The maid hesitated.
My voice sharpened.
"Just speak."
"She said… 'You'd wake somebody with splashing water? Your mates are waking people up with kisses at least. Tsk. And you…'"
The maid's voice grew smaller.
"And you what?"
"She called you a… lousy, grumpy grandpa."
Silence.
Total.
Utter.
Silence.
For a moment, I did not feel anger.
I felt disbelief.
Grandpa.
I stood abruptly.
The chair scraped harshly against the marble floor.
What kind of woman openly insults the man holding her fate in his hands?
What kind of woman rejects what others beg for?
What kind of woman dares to compare me to "mates" waking people up with kisses?
Kisses?
The thought irritated me more than it should have.
I did not kiss.
I did not wake people gently.
I did not soften.
And yet—
The image of her saying it, scoffing with that stubborn little expression, ignited something volatile inside me.
"Where is she?" I asked coldly.
"In the study, boss."
Of course she was.
Still in that room she complained about endlessly.
Still criticizing my house.
Still breathing too comfortably.
I walked out without another word.
Her door was closed.
I did not knock.
I smashed it open.
Violently.
She screamed immediately.
"Aahhh! What's wrong with you?! What if I was changing???"
Her voice echoed sharply.
She stood near the bed, holding one of the rejected dresses, hair slightly messy, face flushed with irritation — not fear.
I crossed the room in seconds.
My anger was no longer quiet.
It was boiling.
"You reject what I provide?" I demanded.
She blinked, startled but not shrinking.
"I said it's awful!" she shot back. "It's not me!"
Not me.
As if she had the luxury of preference.
As if she had choice.
I grabbed her face firmly, fingers pressing into her cheeks, forcing her to look at me.
Her skin was warm beneath my hand.
Her pulse steady.
Still not afraid.
"Don't make me turn into the devil you can't stay beside," I said lowly.
Her eyes searched mine.
Confused.
Almost thoughtful.
As if she were internally questioning—
What were you before? An angel?
The thought was written across her face even if she didn't say it aloud.
Infuriating woman.
"And if you don't like the dress," I continued harshly, "then walk around naked. That's on you."
Her brows furrowed slightly.
Still processing.
Still not panicking.
I released her and pushed her back lightly.
The maid had already dropped the dress and disappeared from the doorway.
Smart.
I turned and walked out before my temper escalated further.
The door slammed behind me.
Back in my own study, I stood by the window.
My hands were clenched.
Why does she provoke me this way?
Why does she speak as if we are equals?
As if I am not capable of breaking her world in a second?
She mocked the water incident too.
Your mates wake people with kisses.
The audacity.
Does she expect gentleness from me?
From Lucien Moretti?
No one expects softness from me.
They expect fear.
Obedience.
Silence.
Yet she stands there, soaked from water, insulted, accused of financial crimes—
And she critiques my wardrobe selections.
She rejects my choices.
She requests "something more like her."
As if I am her stylist.
As if this is a negotiation.
And the most unsettling part?
She said it with disgust.
Not fear.
Disgust.
That should enrage me further.
Instead—
It unsettled me.
Because when I grabbed her face—
She didn't tremble.
She didn't cry.
She evaluated me.
Measured my anger.
Calculated it.
She knew she had provoked me.
And she remained calm.
Who are you, Aria Reyes?
What kind of woman stands in front of me and calls me crazy, grandpa, lousy—
And still sleeps under my roof without flinching?
I should tighten restrictions.
I should remind her who controls this house.
Instead—
I find myself replaying her words.
More like me.
What exactly is "like her"?
Bright colors? Soft fabrics? Something less severe than what I chose?
Why does it matter?
It shouldn't.
But it does.
And that irritates me more than her insults.
Because control means detachment.
And I am no longer entirely detached.
She challenges me.
And for the first time in years—
I am not entirely bored.
Which is dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Because if she continues to test my limits—
One day I may actually become the devil she cannot stand.
And I am not certain—
Whether I would stop myself.