The doors shut with a soft click.
Silence.
Edgar remained standing, one hand on the back of the chair, watching the door as if Lucien might reappear.
Lyra didn't move.
She finally broke the silence. "He didn't ask anything he didn't already know."
"No," Edgar said.
"He knew about Solara. About the redline stall."
"He reads everything," Edgar replied. "He memorizes before he walks in. Then pretends to be curious."
Lyra turned slightly, brow furrowing. "So why does it feel like he was waiting for something?"
Edgar didn't answer immediately.
His voice, when it came, was quieter than she expected.
"Because he was."
A pause.
Lyra studied him.
"You know him."
Edgar's eyes didn't leave the door.
"I know what kind of man he is."
"And what kind is that?"
He turned finally, met her eyes.
"The kind who never asks for what he wants. He waits for you to offer it without realizing."
She nodded. "You don't trust him."
He didn't blink. "Do you?"
A pause.
"No," she said softly.
Silence stretched again.
Neither of them acknowledged the shift beneath the surface.
But both felt it.
Something had entered the room with Lucien—and hadn't left.
Lucien sat in the back of the sleek black car, rain tracing lazy lines across the window.
The driver didn't speak.
The interior was silent.
He reached into his coat, pulled out a pair of gloves—dark leather, finely stitched. Slipped one on.
Paused with the second.
Instead, he turned his hand palm-up.
A small scar. Long healed. Thin. Barely visible.
He stared at it for a moment.
Then—softly, without emotion—his lips curved. Just slightly.
Not a smile.
Not warmth.
Just…
Memory.
He flexed the fingers once.
Then slipped on the glove.
"Back to the hotel," he said, voice smooth.
As the car merged into traffic, Lucien stared at nothing, the city lights flickering in his eyes like a candle behind glass.
And said nothing at all.