Three nights passed before Bianca saw him again.
She had almost convinced herself it had been a one-time encounter—one of those rare clients who paid well, vanished quietly, and left behind nothing but a memory and clean hotel linen. But just as the cold wind began to pick up that evening and Bianca was considering calling it an early night, she saw the black car pull up slowly to the curb across the street.
The window lowered.
And there he was.
Same expensive coat. Same piercing eyes. Same smile that spoke of secrets.
"Bonsoir, Bianca."
She blinked. He had remembered her name.
"I wasn't expecting you again," she said, careful not to show the mix of surprise and caution tightening her chest.
"Les meilleurs plaisirs sont imprévus." (The best pleasures are unexpected.)
She walked toward the car, the heel of her boot tapping steadily against the wet pavement.
"You want to talk or are you looking to negotiate?"
He opened the door from inside, and she slipped in beside him.
"I want time," he said simply. "Your time."
She looked at him sideways, skeptical. "That'll cost you more than last time."
He nodded without hesitation. "Agreed."
The hotel was the same. Room 509. But something was different. He had brought wine this time. Two glasses were already waiting, chilled. The room smelled of cedarwood and something faintly spiced. Bianca felt the air shift before either of them said another word.
"Who are you?" she asked, leaning back on the edge of the bed.
He took a slow sip from his glass before answering.
"My name is Lucien."
She repeated it under her breath. Lucien. It sounded like velvet in her mouth.
"I work in import-export. Mostly wine, sometimes antiques. I spend a great deal of time between Paris and here."
"And you spend your free time paying women for company?"
He chuckled softly. "Only one woman, so far."
Bianca arched a brow. "Flattery doesn't make you less of a client."
"I'm not trying to flatter you." He stood slowly, walked over, and offered her a glass. "I'm trying to understand you."
"Why?" she asked, accepting it.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his fingers brushing the inside of her wrist—so light she barely felt it. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Because there's something in your eyes I can't forget."
She froze. Words like that were dangerous. Too close to a place she couldn't afford to go. But the heat of his gaze made it hard to pull away.
Lucien leaned down, pressing his lips softly to her shoulder.
She inhaled. He wasn't touching her like a man starved, or drunk on lust. He was deliberate, slow, like every motion was carefully placed to unravel her bit by bit.
"Laisse-moi te montrer… doucement." (Let me show you… gently.)
Bianca's breath hitched.
This wasn't just sex. It wasn't raw need or money in a pocket. It was something else—something quiet, slow-burning, and dangerous in its own way.
Lucien laid her down carefully, his hands tracing the lines of her ribs, her stomach, her hips. He moved like he was reading a story across her skin, and Bianca found herself trembling—not from fear, but from the way his attention made her feel seen.
No one had ever taken this much time.
She gave in, just for the night.
---
Afterward, as she lay curled against him, Lucien didn't say much. He stroked her hair and watched the ceiling, one hand resting lightly on her hip.
Bianca wanted to ask why he'd come back, what he was really after—but part of her was afraid to know.
So she said nothing. Let the silence hold the weight instead.
But before she drifted to sleep, she heard him murmur in the dark:
"Je crois que tu pourrais me briser." (I think you could break me.)
She didn't answer. Because part of her, buried deep beneath the armor, wondered if he could do the same.
******************************
The Unwrapping of Lucien
Bianca wasn't used to seeing the same man twice. Her work didn't allow for it. Repetition, intimacy, familiarity—those were dangers she had learned to avoid. But Lucien didn't follow the rules of her world. He made his own.
And he returned. Again. And again.
Sometimes once a week. Sometimes less. But always with purpose. Never with desperation.
He never rushed her. Never made her feel bought, even when money passed hands at the end of every meeting—neatly folded in envelopes that were always too thick for what they did. She stopped counting after the third time. There were things about him more difficult to calculate.
One afternoon, he sent a car for her.
No hotel this time.
The address was uptown—well beyond the neighborhoods where she lived and worked. The driver didn't speak, didn't even glance her way. The building they pulled up to was old stone, elegant but discreet. A doorman opened the car without asking a single question.
When the elevator doors slid open, Lucien was waiting.
Not in a suit this time. In a white shirt, collar open, sleeves rolled up, barefoot.
"You came," he said with that unreadable smile.
"You sent a car," she replied, stepping inside.
He led her into the apartment—high ceilings, soft jazz playing from somewhere invisible, shelves filled with books in multiple languages. It didn't feel like a rich man's apartment. It felt like a thinking man's refuge.
"Is this yours?" she asked, scanning the framed sketches on the walls.
"One of a few," he said.
She turned. "What do you do again?"
"I told you. Import-export. Old things, new markets."
She narrowed her eyes. "You told me wine and antiques."
Lucien smiled faintly. "Sometimes truth wears several jackets."
He poured her wine and sat across from her on a velvet armchair. The way he looked at her wasn't with lust. Not tonight. It was heavier than that. Like he was slowly opening a door he rarely touched.
"I want to tell you something," he said. "Something I don't tell most people."
Bianca tensed slightly, wineglass midway to her lips. "Why me?"
"Because you listen," he said simply. "Because you don't pretend. And maybe because I think we both carry things no one else sees."
He stood, walking toward the wide window that overlooked the city skyline.
"I was married once," he said. "Years ago. In Lyon. Her name was Amélie. She was fire—beautiful, reckless, soft when she wanted to be, cruel when she didn't."
Bianca didn't speak. She only watched him closely.
"She died. Car accident. Took me years to believe it wasn't my fault." His voice didn't waver, but there was something hollow at the edge of it. "I buried her. And I buried the man I was with her."
Lucien turned, finally meeting Bianca's gaze.
"After that, I didn't want closeness. I didn't want honesty. I wanted control."
She nodded slowly. "So you paid for it."
"I thought I could replace connection with transaction," he said. "Until you."
Bianca's breath caught.
Lucien came closer, kneeling in front of her now, his hands resting gently on her knees.
"You weren't trying to charm me," he said. "You weren't selling me a fantasy. You were just… real. And I'm starting to feel things I thought I'd locked away."
She felt a flicker of panic under her ribs. "Lucien…"
"I don't expect anything," he said quickly. "I know what you do. I don't judge it. I don't want to change you."
His voice dropped lower.
"But I want to see you outside of it. I want to know you. Not just your body—but the woman inside the armor."
Bianca's walls trembled. Not fell. But cracked.
No one had ever said that to her. Not with eyes so clear, not with a voice so steady.
"What if I don't know her anymore?" she whispered.
Lucien reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
"Then let me help you find her."
They didn't touch that night—not in the way they usually did. He held her instead, arms around her as they lay beneath quiet, flickering shadows. He didn't undress her. Didn't press. He simply held her like she was something sacred.
And Bianca lay still, wide awake, wondering what kind of man paid for a woman's time just to let her feel safe.