Dual POV - Celeste & Lucien.
Celeste's POV:
I used to think I knew the anatomy of want.
How it crept in. How it bloomed. How it could be named, categorized, dissected, healed.
Now I know better.
Want isn't soft. It's not gentle.
It's a pressure. A wildfire under the ribs. A hand wrapped around your throat, not to hurt — but to remind you you're alive.
And now that I've tasted it, there's no going back.
Not to the quiet. Not to the scripts.
Not to Damien.
I told myself I would meet Lucien once. That I'd satisfy the hunger with control. That I'd sit, speak, leave.
But I never left.
I mean, yes — I walked out of that lounge. Alone. But something of me stayed behind. Some part I don't know how to reclaim. And I don't even want to.
I still wear the bracelet. Every day. Hidden, like a secret prayer.
---
At the clinic, I pretend to be fine. I listen to stories of desire and pain, shame and guilt. I offer words wrapped in wisdom. But every mirror I pass, I catch myself looking too long. Like I'm trying to see what's different.
Because something is.
Something fractured.
Or maybe something finally woke up.
I catch him again today.
Not fully. Just… a flicker.
Across the street from the café, behind tinted glass, a silhouette that shouldn't be there. That shouldn't feel familiar.
I don't turn my head. I don't make it obvious.
But my pulse stutters like a skipped beat on an old record.
He's watching. He always is.
And the terrifying part?
I want him to.
At night, I try to journal. It's what I always recommend to clients — a way to track thoughts, to stay grounded, to navigate emotional spikes.
But my pen just circles the same word over and over again:
His.
I press harder until the ink bleeds through the page.
And for one shameful, beautiful moment — I wish I already was.
Lucien's POV:
She doesn't realize she's already mine.
Not fully. Not in the way the world defines possession.
But in the moments between breath and thought.
In the spaces where logic collapses and instinct takes hold.
I own those.
I watch her pause on her walk, eyes scanning her surroundings like she can feel the heat even before she sees the flame. Her spine straightens. Her lips part. She doesn't smile, but she softens.
She knows I'm there. And still — she doesn't run.
She wants me to follow.
So I do.
But only so far.
Because the moment she decides to run toward me — that's the moment the leash disappears.
I'll never hold her by force.
I don't need to.
Adrien says I'm getting reckless.
That this thing with her could spiral.
That obsession is the weakest form of power.
He doesn't understand.
This isn't obsession. This is recognition.
Celeste isn't a weakness. She's a mirror. One that reflects the man I am beneath the empire. The one I buried long before blood and inheritance carved me into something other men feared.
She sees that man.
Even when she shouldn't. Especially when she shouldn't.
---
Tonight, I sit in the suite above her clinic.
It wasn't hard to secure — the building owner owes me favors, the kind that don't come with receipts. The room is bare. Sparse. Just a chair, a lamp, a window.
And her.
Down below.
Moving through her office with clinical grace. Her eyes slightly tired. Her fingers restless. Every so often, she glances at the window. She doesn't know it's one-way glass.
But maybe she senses it.
I don't smile. I just watch.
Because this is the threshold now. The slow descent. The unraveling of her old life.
Not by my hand.
By hers.
That's what makes it perfect.
Celeste's POV:
Damien says we should go away for the weekend.
Somewhere remote. Just the two of us.
I nod. Smile. Agree.
But something inside me shrinks.
The idea of being alone with him — of pretending everything is fine — feels suffocating. Like wearing someone else's skin.
Still, I agree.
Because I need to see if the illusion can hold.
Or if it's already dead.
The night before we're supposed to leave, I stand under the shower for almost an hour.
The water is scalding. My skin flushes red.
But it's not enough.
I scrub harder. My arms. My chest. My thighs.
Like I can wash him out of me. Like I can un-feel everything Lucien's gaze has ignited.
I can't.
I dry myself off, slipping into the robe Damien bought last Christmas. Silk. Ivory. Too pristine.
I hate it.
I strip it off and reach for something else — a black camisole, soft cotton. Plain. Honest.
When I pass the mirror, I don't flinch.
I just stare.
Not at my face.
At the gold bracelet.
Still on.
Still mine. Still his.
Lucien's POV:
Adrien hands me a copy of the itinerary.
They're going away.
Weekend in the Berkshires. Private cabin. Driver scheduled. Itineraries filed under a shared account.
He waits for my reaction.
I give none. Because it changes nothing.
Let her go. Let her see.
Let her remember the emptiness of that bed, that marriage, that shell.
Because I know what she'll crave when it's over.
Not chaos. Not danger.
Me.
The only man who sees her.
Not the wife.
Not the therapist. Not the saint.
Just the woman.
And once you see her…
You can't unsee.