The key in my pocket burned like it had a heartbeat.
I didn't speak as Lucien stepped back, as if the kiss hadn't just carved something raw and irreversible into the space between us. He didn't either. But the silence didn't feel like distance this time—it felt like something sharp, something alive. Something waiting.
I followed him out of the room without needing to be told. The elevator ride was quiet. Too quiet. My pulse echoed in my ears, loud and uneven. He didn't touch me again. He didn't have to. His presence was enough to coil tension low in my stomach like a promise not yet fulfilled.
When we stepped onto the executive floor, he paused.
"You're not to talk about anything you saw in that room," he said without looking at me. "Not to anyone. Not even if you trust them."
"I don't trust anyone," I said.
His lips twitched—almost a smile.
"Good."
Then he walked away.
Like he hadn't just let me peek behind the curtain and see the monster pulling all the strings.
Like I hadn't just kissed him like I'd die if I didn't.
Back at my desk, the world felt hollow. Small. Like I'd stepped into another reality entirely and now I was trying to fit back into a box I'd already outgrown.
Emails blurred on my screen. Sandra's voice was distant. Even the air felt different—heavier, darker, as if something had shifted permanently.
I kept replaying his words over and over.
You're in it now.
I didn't ask to be.
But part of me wondered if I'd ever wanted anything more.
Because the more Lucien Vale showed me who he really was, the more I couldn't look away.
That night, I walked home with one hand curled around the key in my pocket.
Every shadow looked like it knew my name.
I wasn't paranoid.
I was watched.
The footage didn't lie.
Someone had been outside my apartment.
Watching.
Waiting.
I glanced over my shoulder more than once, but no one was there.
Still… I didn't feel alone.
When I got home, I double-locked the door, then moved through my apartment in silence, checking every room.
Nothing out of place.
No broken windows. No signs of entry.
But the air felt… wrong.
Like someone had been here.
I slept with the key under my pillow.
The next morning, another message was waiting for me.
Unknown Number:You should've stayed in your lane.
I stared at it for a full minute before replying.
Me: Who are you?
No response.
But that night, I found another box outside my door.
This one wasn't from Lucien.
There was no black velvet. No elegance. No mystery laced in gold.
Just a plain, brown package.
Inside—
A single photo.
Grainy. Blurred.
But unmistakable.
Me.
At the office.
Sitting at my desk, looking at my screen.
And behind me, in the glass reflection—
A man.
Tall. Hooded.
Watching.
I slammed the door shut and locked it again, chest heaving.
My hands shook.
Not from fear.
From fury.
They wanted to scare me.
But they didn't realize who I was anymore.
Lucien hadn't just pulled me into his world.
He'd changed me.
I didn't tell him about the box.
Not right away.
I wanted to see what he'd do next.
How far he'd go.
And more importantly—how far I'd go for him.
The next few days blurred together.
Work became a stage, and I played my part perfectly.
Polite. Efficient. Calm.
But beneath it, I was a live wire.
Lucien avoided me during the day. No texts. No secret glances. Just silence, stretched taut between us.
Until Thursday night.
Another message.
Lucien Vale: Penthouse. Midnight. Come alone.
No address.
Just the two words that lit a fire down my spine.
Come alone.
I showed up at 11:59.
He opened the door himself.
Wearing black.
No tie. No jacket.
Just Lucien.
Barefoot.
Beautiful.
Deadly.
The penthouse was lit in warm shadows, like the room itself had secrets it was keeping. The scent of him hit me first—cologne and bourbon and something darker. Something I hadn't named yet.
"You're early," he said.
"You said midnight."
He stepped aside and let me in. "You came."
"You knew I would."
His smile was slow. Dangerous.
"I did."
I turned to him as he closed the door.
"Why did you bring me here?"
He poured two drinks and handed me one.
"Because you need to understand something, Alina."
I took the glass but didn't drink.
"And what's that?"
"That this—" he motioned between us, "—was never supposed to happen."
My stomach twisted.
"Then why let it?"
He stepped closer.
"Because I can't stop."
Then he took the drink from my hand, set both glasses down, and pulled me toward him like he was done pretending to resist.
His kiss was different this time.
Slower.
Possessive.
Like he was trying to memorize me.
And when he broke away, his voice was barely a whisper.
"You think I want to hurt you," he said.
I didn't answer.
"Maybe I do," he continued. "But not in the way you're afraid of."
"Then what way?" I asked.
Lucien stared at me like I was the only person left in a world he was burning down.
"I want to ruin you," he said. "So that no one else will ever matter again."
And then—
He kissed me again.
Harder this time.
And I let him.
We didn't make it to the bedroom.
We didn't need to.
The wall became our witness. My blouse hit the floor. His mouth trailed fire across every inch of skin it found.
And when we were both breathless and bare, when the heat between us had crossed the line from danger to devotion—
He whispered, "You're not just mine, Alina. You're marked."
And I believed him.
When I woke hours later, he was already dressed.
Standing at the window.
Watching the city like it was his to command.
Maybe it was.
I pulled the sheet tighter around me and asked, "What now?"
He turned, slow and measured.
"We find out who wants to hurt you."
"I already know."
He raised an eyebrow.
"They're not after me," I said. "They're after you."
Lucien walked toward me, slow and calm and terrifying.
"I know."
I looked up at him.
"Then why am I the target?"
"Because you're the only thing that can break me."
His voice was flat.
Factual.
Not romantic.
Not even angry.
Just… honest.
And somehow, that was worse.
We didn't talk after that.
He gave me a car to take me home before sunrise.
No kiss goodbye.
No promises.
Just one look.
And I knew it wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
That night, another package came.
This one was smaller.
Inside—
A necklace.
Silver chain. Delicate.
And on the pendant—engraved in tiny, perfect cursive:
His.
No note.
But I didn't need one.
I wore it to work the next day.
Sandra noticed.
She didn't say anything, but her eyes flicked to my throat when I walked in. Her mouth tightened. And she looked away.
The air in the office felt charged.
Different.
Like something had shifted, and everyone could feel it.
Lucien didn't look at me once that morning.
But I felt his gaze anyway.
Everywhere.
Then came the second message.
Unknown Number: You were warned.
And below it…
A photo.
Of Sandra.
Leaving the building.
Followed by someone in a black hoodie.
I stood so fast my chair fell over.
Lucien was in a meeting.
I didn't care.
I walked straight to his office, threw the door open, and held up my phone.
"They're watching her now."
His expression didn't change. But the room dropped ten degrees.
He turned to the man seated across from him.
"Out. Now."
The man scrambled.
Lucien shut the door behind him, then turned to me.
"Show me."
I did.
His jaw tightened.
And then he walked past me, grabbed his phone, and barked something in a language I didn't understand.
When he turned back, his eyes were burning.
"They made another mistake," he said.
"What does that mean?"
"It means they're going to learn what it costs to touch what's mine."
I stared at him.
Then at the photo again.
And realized something terrifying.
They weren't just trying to scare me.
They were trying to break him.
And I was the weapon they were using.