The ride back to Lucian's penthouse was unusually quiet.
No sharp words.
No veiled sarcasm.
Just the hum of the city lights and the faint sound of classical music playing from the car's speakers. Caliste sat beside Lucian, her hands folded in her lap, her thoughts louder than anything outside.
She kept glancing at him—noticing the way he loosened his tie, how the corner of his lips twitched when something amusing crossed his mind. It was strange. This man beside her, relaxed and almost warm, wasn't the cold stranger she married years ago.
Tristan's teasing words echoed in her mind:
"People are starting to think you actually care."
She blinked slowly, trying to shake it off.
Lucian didn't say much. He only looked at her once, offering a small, unreadable smile when their eyes met. It made her stomach flip, and she hated how easily that happened now.
When they arrived, the penthouse was dimly lit, the soft gold fixtures glowing gently across the sleek marble floors. Caliste stepped out of her heels at the entrance and padded barefoot toward the kitchen. Without thinking, Lucian followed.
She opened the fridge and reached for a bottle of sparkling water, pouring it into two glasses. She didn't offer—he just took one without a word and leaned against the counter.
It felt... domestic.
Familiar.
Dangerously intimate.
Lucian broke the silence first. "You looked nice tonight."
She blinked, caught off guard. "Thank you."
"I wasn't just saying it."
"I know," she said softly, her eyes meeting his for a second too long before she looked away. "You're not the type to flatter."
"No," he agreed, then sipped. "But I've been thinking... maybe I should've started."
A silence stretched between them.
Caliste swallowed and leaned on the opposite counter, putting distance between them even as her heart betrayed her. "Lucian," she said, voice quieter now, "why are you being like this?"
"Like what?"
"Soft," she said bluntly. "Kind. Careful. You weren't like this before. You never looked at me like you did tonight. Or kissed me like that."
His eyes darkened slightly, lips pressed together.
"I'm still me," he said after a beat. "But I'm not blind, Caliste. And I'm not made of stone, even if I pretend to be."
She stared at her water glass. "You kissed me to prove a point."
"Maybe," he admitted. "But it wasn't just that."
She didn't respond, letting the fizz in her drink do the talking.
He stepped a little closer, but she shook her head. "I need to know," she whispered, "which version of you is real. The man the tabloids love to tear apart? Or the one who jokes with Tristan and stares at me like I'm something more than a political deal?"
Lucian paused. He wanted to say he didn't know. But he did.
"I'm both," he said simply. "But for you... maybe I'm trying to be the better one."
Her heart ached at that.
And she hated it.
Because feelings were dangerous, and hope was even worse.
She stepped away from the counter, holding her glass tightly. "I can't do this unless I know it's real. I've spent years pretending this marriage doesn't hurt. That you don't get under my skin. I can't fall into this just because you're suddenly nice."
He nodded slowly. "I won't ask you to fall, Caliste. I'll just ask you not to run."
That night, they went to their separate rooms.
But sleep didn't come easy for either of them.
One was haunted by a past he wished he could fix.
The other, by a future she was too scared to hope for.
-----
The morning sun had barely touched the horizon when Caliste walked into the kitchen, barefoot, wearing a robe over her satin nightdress. She was humming quietly, something unfamiliar but lighthearted, as she poured herself coffee.
She hadn't noticed Lucian standing on the balcony, shirtless, sipping his espresso and watching her.
There was something different between them now.
Something tender.
Unspoken.
Last night's quiet moment still lingered in the air like a delicate thread neither of them wanted to break.
Lucian stepped inside, his voice low. "You're up early."
Caliste turned with a small smile. "Couldn't sleep."
He nodded. "Me neither."
A quiet beat passed.
"I thought maybe today, I could take you somewhere," he offered carefully. "Somewhere quiet. Just us."
She blinked, surprised. "You mean like a—"
"Don't say date," he teased. "Let's call it... neutral ground."
She laughed softly. "Alright. Neutral ground."
But just as the warmth between them began to bloom again, the elevator dinged.
Neither of them was expecting a visitor.
Caliste frowned, walking toward the door.
Lucian followed with cautious steps. His gut twisted.
The door opened.
And there she was.
Tall, breathtaking, in a designer coat with her sunglasses perched atop her head—Mirana Vale, the supermodel, Lucian's very famous, very controversial ex-girlfriend.
Her lips curled into a smirk. "Lucian."
Caliste's brows drew together instantly. "Who is—"
"Mirana," Lucian said stiffly. "What are you doing here?"
Mirana stepped inside without being invited, glancing at Caliste with thinly veiled curiosity. "I had to see you, darling. It's urgent. I wouldn't just drop by otherwise."
Lucian's jaw tensed. Caliste took a step back, suddenly feeling out of place in her own home.
"I'm pregnant," Mirana announced, eyes fixed on Lucian. "And it's yours."
Silence.
Cold.
Crushing.
Caliste felt the breath leave her lungs.
Lucian stood frozen. "What?"
"I found out two weeks ago. I didn't want to believe it at first, but after three tests and a visit to my doctor, there's no doubt. I haven't been with anyone else."
Lucian ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing.
"We haven't seen each other in months," he said, his voice dangerously low. "That weekend in Paris was before —"
"I know, before your wife returns" Mirana replied, crossing her arms. "Which makes the timeline... convenient, doesn't it?"
Caliste couldn't move.
She couldn't speak.
Her world spun.
Lucian turned to her, eyes wild. "Caliste—"
"I need some air," she whispered.
He reached for her arm. "Wait—"
But she pulled away, her face unreadable. "No, Lucian. Just... figure this out."
She didn't look back as she walked out of the penthouse.
Mirana watched her go, then turned to Lucian. "That went well."
His glare was ice. "If this is some stunt—"
"It's not." She pulled an envelope from her purse and placed it on the counter. "Doctor's report. You're welcome to a DNA test once it's possible. I'm not here to play games."
Lucian exhaled slowly, holding back the urge to punch something.
Of all the moments for the past to resurface... it had to be now.
When Caliste had finally started looking at him like he was something more than a burden.
When his chest had started aching whenever she wasn't near.
---
Later that night...
Caliste stood alone at the rooftop garden cafe of a nearby hotel, hugging her coat to her body. The wind kissed her cheeks, but she barely noticed. Her eyes were distant, her heart tight.
Was it true?
Was Lucian going to be a father?
To someone else?
The ache that bloomed in her chest was sharp—deeper than jealousy. It was betrayal layered with the sting of reality: she had allowed herself to hope.
A hand gently touched her shoulder.
She turned.
It was Tristan.
He offered her a small, sympathetic smile. "He's not good at handling chaos, you know. He shuts down. Doesn't mean he doesn't care."
"I don't know what to believe anymore," she murmured. "We were finally... something. And now this."
Tristan sighed. "For what it's worth, Lucian was a mess after you walked out."
Caliste looked away, blinking back the tears. "I don't want to be in a marriage where I'm always second choice."
"You never were," Tristan said. "But maybe Lucian needs to finally learn what it means to fight for you."
She nodded slowly.
"I'm tired of waiting for him to choose."