The look in Lucien's eyes wasn't fear.
It was fury.
Cold. Contained. Calculated.
The kind of rage that didn't burn—it froze.
He stood there, phone still clenched in his hand, and I realized something terrifying:
Someone had declared war.
And they'd done it by targeting the one thing Lucien had no control over.
Me.
"They followed Sandra," I said again, quieter this time. "They sent a picture. To me."
Lucien didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
"I told you," he said, voice low, "you're not a bystander anymore."
I stepped forward, heart hammering. "Then stop pretending I am. If they're using me to get to you, then I deserve to know what they want."
His stare sliced right through me.
"They want chaos. Weakness. And I've given them neither for ten years. Until you."
"Then why bring me into this?"
His expression twisted, something dark flickering just beneath the surface.
"Because for the first time, I wanted something that didn't come with blood on the price tag."
He wasn't trying to scare me.
He was trying to protect me the only way he knew how—with distance. With secrets. With silence.
But it was too late for all of that.
I closed the space between us and took his hand, still curled into a fist.
"You don't get to push me out now," I said. "Not after everything."
Lucien looked down at our joined hands like he didn't remember what softness felt like.
His voice was a whisper when he said, "You weren't supposed to be my weakness."
I didn't let go.
"And you weren't supposed to be my weapon."
His eyes met mine then.
Wide open.
Wrecked.
And he kissed me—not out of desire, not out of dominance—but like it was the only thing tethering him to what was left of his humanity.
Not sweet.
Not gentle.
Just necessary.
Raw.
He broke the kiss first.
But this time, he didn't step away.
"This isn't about just you anymore," he said. "Or me. They're testing boundaries. Sending messages. They want a reaction."
"Then give them one."
He tilted his head. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying."
He studied me for a long moment, then said, "Fine."
And just like that, the game changed.
We didn't go back to our desks.
We didn't pretend to be anything but what we were now—dangerous, tangled, irreversible.
Lucien took me to the secure floor again.
But this time, he didn't just show me surveillance.
He showed me the people behind it.
One by one.
Photos. Names. Records.
"They operate in silence," he explained. "No faces. No names. Just codes."
I stared at the screen. One picture froze me.
The man from the reflection.
The one behind me.
"Who is that?" I asked.
Lucien didn't hesitate. "Ghost."
I turned. "Seriously?"
"That's what he goes by. He's been a problem for a long time."
"And now he's mine."
Lucien's jaw twitched. "No. Now he's mine."
His fingers moved over the tablet, issuing commands. Calling in people I hadn't met. Voices crackled over encrypted lines. Locations. Time stamps. Vehicles.
I stood beside him, feeling like I was breathing in someone else's life.
"You're not just a CEO," I said. "You're… what? A kingpin?"
"No," he said. "I'm the executioner."
And I didn't flinch.
Because that was the moment I realized I didn't fear Lucien.
I feared what I would become for him.
That night, we didn't go home.
We stayed at Westbrooke until dawn.
Lucien let me sleep in his private lounge.
Not his bed.
Not the floor.
But somewhere in the middle.
He sat across from me the entire time, watching. Waiting.
Protecting.
And when I woke, there was coffee beside the couch.
Still hot.
With a note beneath the mug.
They will come for you again. Let them. I'm ready now. —L
I traced the edge of the paper with my thumb.
I didn't want safety anymore.
I wanted revenge.
The next attack wasn't subtle.
The fire alarm went off at 3PM.
Everyone evacuated.
Except me.
I got a message while walking down the stairs.
Unknown Number: Check your desk drawer.
I turned back. Against better judgment. Against logic. Against fear.
But not against instinct.
Because instinct was screaming now.
I made it back up to my floor and sprinted to my desk.
The drawer was open.
Inside—
Another picture.
This time, it was Lucien.
At the club.
Talking to a man I didn't recognize.
But the caption scrawled across the image made my blood run cold.
He betrayed you first.
I stormed into Lucien's office and threw the photo down in front of him.
"What the hell is this?"
He picked it up, scanned it, and didn't even blink.
"Old."
"That's not an answer."
"It's someone trying to make you doubt me."
"Should I?"
He met my gaze, unblinking. "If I wanted to lie to you, I wouldn't have given you the key."
I wanted to believe him.
But now the ground beneath us wasn't just cracked—it was collapsing.
He walked around the desk and stopped in front of me.
Close. Too close.
"You think I don't see what they're doing?" he said, voice quiet but sharp. "They're trying to break the only thing they've never seen me have—hope."
"I'm not hope," I said.
He smiled without joy. "No. You're fire."
And he kissed me again, rough and reckless, like the only way to keep breathing was to take it from me.
I clung to him like a lifeline I didn't ask for.
And maybe he did too.
We didn't break apart this time.
We burned.
All the way down.
Until everything else—Ghost, threats, shadows, power—melted into silence.
And in that silence, I finally understood:
Lucien didn't just want to win.
He wanted me to win.
With him.
Or not at all.
By the end of the night, the line between us had vanished.
But the war was just beginning.
And I wasn't the weapon anymore.
I was the storm.
And they would regret ever waking me.