Caliste sat at the dining table, untouched toast and a steaming cup of tea in front of her. She hadn't slept much.
Her fingers absently traced the rim of her cup as she stared out the glass wall, watching the city stir beneath the sky. From this height, everything looked peaceful—distant, like another life entirely.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway. She didn't look up.
Lucian appeared in the kitchen, dressed in a crisp white shirt, collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. His expression was unreadable, jaw set with the same tightness he wore during board meetings. The silence between them expanded like fog.
"Morning," he said curtly, pouring himself a glass of water.
Caliste gave a small nod, barely audible. "Morning."
They didn't speak for a while. Just the quiet clink of silver against porcelain and the hum of the city far below. Lucian leaned against the counter, sipping his water while watching her from the corner of his eye.
Lucian exhaled, looking away, fingers flexing around the glass. "Viviene said something stupid last night," he muttered.
Caliste arched a brow. "About your engagement?"
He glanced at her, surprised she mentioned it so plainly.
"I heard," she added. "Congratulations."
The word tasted bitter on her tongue, but she didn't flinch.
"I didn't agree to anything," Lucian said flatly. "You think I'd—"
"It's none of my business," she interrupted, standing slowly. "I'll be late for work."
She pushed the chair in, her movements composed, mechanical. Lucian didn't stop her, but his eyes followed every step she took. When she passed by him to grab her purse, their arms brushed, and her breath caught but she kept moving.
Caliste didn't feel like going home yet.
After her shift at the boutique ended, she slipped her apron off and stepped out into the early evening air, hoping the open sky would clear her thoughts. The boutique lights dimmed behind her as the city began to glow in a softer hue. She walked past the lined cafes and busy crosswalks, letting her heels carry her without direction.
Eventually, her feet brought her to the park nearby. The breeze rustled the leaves in the trees, brushing against her arms like a whispered memory. She found a quiet bench under a flowering archway and sat down, finally breathing out.
She thought of Lucian. Of the look in his eyes that morning. Of the bitterness in her chest when she wished him happiness with someone else.
Suddenly, a shadow loomed.
A man sat beside her.
Caliste blinked and froze.
"Uncle... Desmund?" she whispered.
Desmund Winslow turned to her with a charming smile, the kind that used to fool everyone. It didn't fool her now.
"I was hoping I'd run into you," he said casually, as though they were family meeting over tea and not estranged by betrayal and ruin.
Caliste immediately stood to leave, panic rising in her chest. But before she could take a step, Desmund's hand shot out and clutched her wrist.
She gasped softly, and that's when she noticed them—two tall bodyguards in black suits standing behind the trees, blocking her only exit. Her stomach twisted.
"Sit, Caliste," Desmund said, his voice cold under the smile.
Helpless, she slowly sat back down.
"You've done well for yourself," he mused, eyes narrowing. "Living in Lucian's penthouse... I must admit, I didn't expect him to pick you up from that place."
Her heart pounded in her chest.
"The Silken Rose," he continued in a mocking tone. "Elite brothel for men who crave something rare. And Lucian, your ex-husband he bought you. I almost thought it was romantic." He chuckled.
Caliste said nothing. Her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
Desmund leaned in slightly, voice low now, sharp. "Which is why I'm here. I have a proposition."
She finally looked at him, her voice barely steady. "I want nothing from you."
"Oh, but I think you do," he said, eyes glittering. "Like your father's life?"
That silenced her.
"You see," Desmund went on, straightening his coat, "your father has proven surprisingly resilient. But I'm getting tired of his stubbornness. So here's my offer—get pregnant. With Lucian's child."
Her blood ran cold.
He smiled wider, like a wolf scenting fear. "And when you do... you give me the child. In exchange, I'll set Gregory free and restore his position in the family. Simple trade."
"You're insane," she whispered.
"Not at all. Think of it. Lucian's heir his weakness. I'll raise the child and use it to bind Lucian to me, once and for all. He won't defy me if his child is at stake."
Caliste's voice cracked, but she kept her face calm. "Lucian and I... we're using protection."
Desmund shrugged. "Then stop. Make the effort. I know you still share his bed."
Her throat tightened.
"If you want your father to live, Caliste," he said, standing now, brushing imaginary dust from his suit, "you'll make it happen."
She stared at him, hatred boiling beneath her calm.
"Tick-tock," he added with a smirk, then turned and walked away, his guards following like shadows.
Left alone on the bench, Caliste couldn't move. Her body was still, but her mind reeled. The man she once called uncle had just asked her to use her body as a bargaining chip to bear a child only to give it away and become leverage in a twisted game.
Her hands trembled.
She had to think.
And fast.
The night air clung to Caliste's skin as she quietly entered the penthouse. The soft click of the door closing echoed louder than she intended. She slipped off her shoes at the entryway and tried to calm her racing heart. The lights were dim, but she could feel it—the weight of someone waiting.
Lucian.
He was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, drink in hand, suit jacket discarded and sleeves rolled up. His eyes flicked up to her the moment she stepped into view.
"You're late."
His voice was calm. Too calm.
Caliste swallowed hard, forcing composure. "I walked home."
Lucian leaned back, watching her. His gaze traveled over her clothes, her slightly disheveled appearance, the faint traces of emotional fatigue she couldn't quite hide.
"Eat something. Then clean up," he said sharply, standing. "I'll be in my room."