The soft hum of the city rose in the distance, muffled by the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lucian's penthouse. Golden light spilled into the minimalist bedroom, casting long shadows across the cold, empty side of the bed.
Caliste sat at the edge, dressed in a pale blouse and slim beige trousers—her work outfit simple, clean, almost too modest for the space she now called "home."
Lucian had already showered. She heard the soft click of his belt earlier, the scent of his cologne still lingering in the air like a ghost.
He stepped out of the walk-in closet, adjusting the cuffs of his dark dress shirt. His tie hung loosely around his neck as he grabbed his coat from the valet stand. Their eyes met for a brief second in the mirror.
"Don't be late tonight," he said, voice firm but quiet.
"I won't," Caliste replied, rising to smooth out the wrinkles on her blouse.
Lucian didn't respond.
He walked past her toward the door without a single backward glance. But just before he turned the knob, he paused.
"I told the driver to take you. He'll be waiting downstairs."
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
No kiss. No touch. Not even a goodbye.
The moment the door shut behind him, Caliste let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Her fingers curled into her palm, nails digging into her skin.
This wasn't love.
It wasn't even companionship.
It was something cold… calculated. A contract that shackled her with invisible threads.
But she still put on light makeup, still brushed her hair neatly, and still walked out of the penthouse like she belonged there.
Because she had to survive this. Somehow.
And maybe—just maybe—find herself again.
The soft chime of the boutique door echoed as Caliste waved goodbye to her manager. It had been a peaceful day—tiring, yes—but nothing she couldn't handle. She appreciated the simplicity of working again. It grounded her.
Just as she stepped outside, the late afternoon sun casting a gentle glow across the city, a familiar voice called out.
"Caliste?"
She turned and blinked in surprise.
"Liena?"
Standing a few steps away was her college friend—Liena Durand, once a quiet scholarship student, now a confident woman in heels and a designer coat. Her eyes sparkled with both surprise and cautious warmth.
"It's really you!" Liena smiled and walked toward her, arms wide.
They shared a brief hug.
"You look... well," Liena said, her tone careful.
Caliste smiled lightly. "I'm managing."
"I was passing by and saw you through the window. Thought I was hallucinating," Liena laughed. "You free for coffee? There's a place just around the corner. My treat."
Caliste hesitated for a moment, then pulled out her phone and quickly typed a message.
[To: Lucian]
Meeting a friend. I'll be a bit late.
She didn't wait for a reply. The phone slipped back into her bag, and with a polite nod, she followed Liena down the block.
---
The café was warm and smelled of cinnamon and roasted beans. They found a small corner table and settled in. Liena ordered a caramel macchiato; Caliste opted for black.
"So… working in a boutique now?" Liena asked casually, stirring her drink. "That's… unexpected."
"I like it," Caliste replied simply. "It keeps me busy."
Liena leaned in, her voice soft. "I'm not judging. I just remember the girl who walked through college halls like royalty. The girl everyone wanted to be."
Caliste let out a quiet laugh, tinged with irony. "That girl's long gone."
A brief silence passed between them.
"I know a designer friend who's expanding her brand," Liena offered. "She's looking for someone to help manage her showroom. You'd be perfect."
Caliste shook her head with a small smile. "Thanks, but I like where I am. It's humble, but it feels... honest."
Liena studied her for a long moment. "You haven't contacted him, have you?"
The words hung in the air like heavy fog.
Caliste blinked. "Lucian?"
Liena nodded slowly. "You didn't reach out? Not even once?"
"I have no reason to," Caliste answered quietly, looking down at her coffee cup. She lied.
"I figured as much," Liena sighed. "Still, you should know… there's talk."
Caliste looked up. Her chest tightened. "What kind of talk?"
"In the parties, among the socialites," Liena said, voice low. "They say the Velmores are searching for a suitable bride for Lucian. Someone with pedigree, background… someone who can give them an heir."
Caliste's throat went dry.
Liena continued gently, "The board is growing restless. The legacy must go on. Lucian is the only heir, after all."
Caliste clenched her hands under the table.
"He's never been the type to entertain the matchmaking game," she whispered.
"Maybe not," Liena agreed. "But this isn't about what he wants. It's about the legacy. You know how the Velmores are."
Caliste didn't respond. She only stared at her reflection in the coffee's dark surface.
A mistress... in a penthouse...
While someone else is being prepared to be his wife?
Liena must have sensed her turmoil. She reached across the table and touched Caliste's hand.
"I'm not saying this to hurt you. I just thought you deserved to know."
Caliste nodded slowly. "Thanks."
The rest of the conversation drifted to safer topics—college memories, mutual acquaintances, and bits of laughter that masked the hollow ache building inside her.
When they finally parted ways, Caliste walked quietly back toward the street where the Velmore car was parked.
She hadn't checked her phone. She didn't need to.
Lucian probably didn't reply.
And maybe that silence said more than any message ever could.
Caliste stepped out of the elevator onto the top floor of the high-rise penthouse. Her heart thudded beneath her blouse—too fast, too loud. She didn't know why, but something about the conversation with Liena left her unsettled.
The quiet hum of the corridor welcomed her. But as soon as she opened the door to the penthouse, she knew.
He was already home.
The scent of his cologne lingered in the air, subtle and commanding. She stepped inside cautiously, placing her bag on the console.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him—Lucian Velmore—standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of scotch. His back was turned, the city skyline reflecting in the glass before him.
"You're late," his deep voice echoed, calm… too calm.
Caliste swallowed and removed her shoes. "I met a friend from college. I texted—"
"I know," he cut in sharply, turning to face her. His eyes were unreadable, sharp and guarded. "I read it."