The penthouse was quiet—too quiet.
Caliste sat on the edge of the large velvet couch, her fingers twisting the hem of her blouse. She had been waiting for hours, glancing at the clock every few minutes, listening to the tick of silence that made the air feel heavy.
She had made up her mind.
Tonight, she would talk to him.
Ask for his help—for her father, Gregory Winslow. He didn't deserve to rot away under Desmund's cruel hand. He had once been a proud man, not a pawn.
And Lucian… he was her last hope.
The clock ticked past eleven… then midnight.
Her eyes fluttered closed in exhaustion, only to spring open when the door clicked.
Lucian.
The scent of smoke and expensive alcohol hit first. Then the sound of his uneven steps echoed through the marble floor.
He was drunk.
Very drunk.
Lucian staggered in, jacket unbuttoned, hair tousled, eyes sharp but unfocused. His tie hung loose around his neck, and the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips when he saw her.
"Waiting for me, sweetheart?" His voice was thick, heavy with the slur of too many drinks and the arrogance of a man who believed the world bent to his will.
Caliste stood up cautiously. "Lucian, I need to talk to you—"
He didn't let her finish.
In three long strides, he was in front of her. His arms wrapped around her waist tightly, pulling her body against his. She gasped, but he didn't give her time to resist. His lips crashed down on hers—not gently, not romantically. It was desire clouded by liquor and possession.
Her back hit the couch before she realized he had swept her off her feet. His kisses were messy, insistent, as if claiming her was the only thing anchoring him to reality.
"Lucian—" she tried again, breathless, hands pressed against his chest.
But he didn't hear her—or didn't want to.
"Don't speak," he murmured into her skin, lips trailing fire along her collarbone. "Just stay…"
And just like that, the conversation she planned, the bargain she rehearsed—everything disappeared.
The room melted into shadows and heat, and the night blurred into something tangled and silent. There were no words, only breathless sighs and unspoken emotions wrapped between the sheets of their history.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, Caliste knew—
Tonight was not the night for answers.
-------
A sharp ray of sunlight pierced through the tall curtains of the penthouse, nudging Lucian from the depths of his slumber.
His head throbbed—a reminder of the drinks he drowned last night. He groaned softly, the leather couch beneath him oddly warm. His bare back pressed against it as he shifted slightly, attempting to rise.
That's when he felt it.
Something—or someone—was pressed against his side.
Lucian froze.
He turned his head.
And there she was.
Caliste.
Her head rested gently against his arm, her long lashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks. She slept soundly, unaware of the chaos that swirled inside him the moment his eyes landed on her.
Only a thin sheet was draped over her body, tangled around their limbs, barely preserving modesty. His gaze, against his will, slid lower—to her bare shoulder where faint bruised kiss marks painted her porcelain skin.
His marks.
Last night came crashing back in fragments.
The alcohol. The heat of the moment. The way he'd clutched her waist and pulled her down onto the couch, how her fingers had gripped his back, her breath hitching with every touch.
He cursed inwardly.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
He wasn't supposed to want her again—let alone touch her like that.
Lucian slowly shifted his arm from under her head, trying not to wake her. But even the smallest movement made her stir.
"Lucian…?" she mumbled sleepily, her voice husky and soft, laced with confusion.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he grabbed the discarded throw blanket from the edge of the couch and carefully draped it over her exposed body. Then he stood, stark naked, and stalked across the room with the grace of a predator who just realized the cage he built for someone else had also locked him in.
In the safety of his room, he dressed in silence.
Lucian was already buttoning the cuffs of his white dress shirt when he turned back toward the living room—and saw her.
Caliste.
Her hair was a tousled cascade over one shoulder, the blanket slipping ever so slightly from her form as she stood up with the sheet wrapped around her. Golden sunlight spilled through the windows, painting her skin in warm hues.
Something inside him snapped.
The fire he tried to bury under cold indifference—flared alive again.
His footsteps were silent but purposeful as he approached her. Caliste looked up, startled by his sudden presence, her lips parting to speak.
She didn't get the chance.
Lucian seized her face in his hands and kissed her—fiercely, hungrily, like a man starved.
Caliste let out a soft gasp, but her body betrayed her hesitation. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she kissed him back. With every breath, their restraint crumbled.
The blanket fell to the floor.
Lucian lifted her, effortlessly, and laid her back down on the couch as the morning sun bore witness to their reunion—raw, intimate, tangled in sheets and longing. There were no words, only touches and the sound of hearts pounding like war drums.
It wasn't slow.
It wasn't gentle.
It was a storm that had waited too long to break.
By the time their bodies stilled and their breaths slowed, the morning was already slipping into midday.
Lucian brushed a strand of hair away from her damp forehead, then stood and reached for his shirt again. "We're going to be late," he murmured, voice husky but controlled.
Caliste nodded faintly, chest rising and falling as she caught her breath. She gathered herself, wrapped in the blanket once more, and walked silently toward the bedroom.
The spell was broken.
Reality was creeping back in, piece by piece.
A few minutes later, Caliste emerged dressed simply, her features calm, almost unreadable. Lucian didn't speak. He only handed her a cup of coffee he'd brewed, then grabbed his keys.
They left the penthouse together, as if nothing had happened.
But the heat between them still lingered—beneath clothes, beneath skin.
And the sun wasn't the only one who had seen what they'd done.
It was written in the way they avoided each other's gaze.
In the way their hands almost touched in the elevator… but didn't.