That night, Aria didn't sleep.
Midnight crept in quietly, draping the mansion in shadows and surveillance. She knew the cameras were watching. Lucien had never said it out loud—but she felt his eyes everywhere.
So she walked.
Slowly. Casually. Alone.
Down corridors. Past locked doors. Across marble floors that echoed her steps just enough to be noticed.
Miles away, Lucien saw it on the CCTV feed.
Aria. Awake. Wandering. Purposeful.
His jaw tightened.
What are you doing now?
He didn't wait.
He grabbed his coat and left immediately.
Back at the mansion, Aria checked the time.
Perfect.
She slipped into the kitchen like she belonged there—because she did.
The tablet was clean now. No flour. No prints. A drama played softly as background noise, harmless and dull. Ingredients were already laid out, deliberate but unremarkable.
She began making croissants.
Butter folded into dough. Flour dusting the counter. Movements calm, practiced. Innocent.
The sound of footsteps reached her right on cue.
She didn't turn.
"What are you doing?" Lucien asked from behind her.
Aria glanced over her shoulder, unfazed.
"Just making croissants," she said lightly. "You can join me if you want."
He scoffed, already turning away. "No thanks. I don't bake."
She sighed dramatically, pushing at the dough. "This dough is so hard. I need someone to knead it properly."
Lucien stopped.
Paused.
Then—against his better judgment—he rolled up his sleeves.
"Move," he said. "Let me help."
Aria stepped aside, biting back a smile.
Watching Lucien attack dough was… something else.
Too much force. Too little patience. Flour everywhere. He looked like a child who'd been handed a toy without instructions.
She laughed softly.
"No, not like that," she said, stepping closer. "Here—like this."
She placed her hands over his.
Guided the motion. Press. Fold. Turn.
Their hands moved together, flour coating their skin, dough sticking to fingers. Close. Familiar. Dangerous.
Lucien frowned in concentration. "This makes no sense."
"It does," Aria said gently. "You're just overthinking."
She watched him carefully.
When his hands were fully coated—perfectly messy—she stepped back.
"Oh," she added casually, "can you pause the episode? I need to preheat the oven."
Lucien reached for the tablet without hesitation.
Tapped the screen.
Paused.
Floury fingers pressed cleanly against the glass.
Once.
Twice.
Aria turned away before her smile could give her away.
When she came back, she glanced at the tablet.
There it was.
Clear. Perfect. Successful.
Her heart kicked—but she kept her face calm.
"I'll put this on charge," she said easily. "Battery's low."
Lucien nodded, already distracted by the dough again.
She carried the tablet upstairs, locked it safely in her room, and returned.
Lucien looked wrecked.
Flour in his hair. On his cheek. Across his hands. His shirt ruined.
Aria stared at him.
Then laughed.
"You look like a disaster," she said, reaching up to wipe flour from his face.
He scowled. "You did this."
"And yet," she teased, "you stayed."
They finished baking together.
She'd baked hundreds of times before—but this?
This felt different.
Light. Real. Almost happy.
Aria chuckled the entire time, watching Lucien struggle, complain, and accidentally enjoy himself despite everything.
For a moment—just a moment—she forgot why she'd started.
And that was the most dangerous part of all.
Because while Lucien thought he'd shared a harmless night—
Aria had just stolen the key to his secrets.
While the tablet charged, she peeled a strip of cello tape with careful fingers, pressing it lightly—perfectly—over the screen. One clean lift. Then another. The ridges transferred beautifully.
Lucien's fingerprints.Aria worked quickly.
She hid the tape inside the back cover of her phone case—instinctive, practiced—just as footsteps approached.
She looked up.
Lucien stood there, still dusted in flour like a crime scene that hadn't been cleaned properly. His hair was a mess, his sleeves rolled, frustration written all over his face.
She smiled despite herself.
"Hold still," she said, stepping closer.
She brushed flour from his shoulder, then his cheek. He stiffened at first, then gave up resisting.
"You did this," he muttered.
"And you enjoyed it," she replied.
He snorted. "Don't push it."
They made cookies together next—simpler, easier. Comfortable in a way that felt wrong. Lucien washed the plates without complaint, sleeves wet, expression unreadable.
"Hot chocolate?" Aria asked casually.
His favorite.
He frowned. "No."
She made it anyway.
He didn't comment when she handed him the mug. Just took it and left the kitchen to freshen up.
When he was gone, Aria finished plating the croissants—golden, flaky, perfect. She arranged them carefully, snapped a photo without thinking, and sent it.
To Kaya.
The screen stayed silent.
Unread. All of them.
Her chest tightened—not with fear this time, but resolve.
I'm finding you, she promised silently.
She lifted the plate and headed toward Lucien's room.
The door opened easily.
Steam drifted from the bathroom—shower running.
Alone.
Her pulse quickened.
Five minutes, she told herself.
Detective Aria took over.
She moved fast but quietly. Desk—nothing. Drawers—locked. Closet—immaculate. Too immaculate. No hidden phones. No files. No obvious secrets.
Nothing.
Frustration crept in.
She sat down on the chair near the window, the plate resting on the table beside her. Her shoulders slumped slightly as she closed her eyes.
Just for a second.
She let out a soft sigh.
Too much thinking. Too much pressure. Too many doors that wouldn't open.
Then—
The sound of the shower stopped.
Aria's eyes snapped open.
The bathroom door creaked open.
Steam rolled out first—warm, thick—curling into the room like a warning she didn't heed.
Then he stepped out.
A towel sat low on his hips, careless, like he trusted gravity more than he should. Water traced slow paths down the hard planes of his chest, catching the light, slipping over muscle like it knew the route by heart. His hair was damp, dark strands clinging to his forehead, droplets falling from the tips.
Lucien didn't speak.
He just looked at her.
The kind of look that didn't rush. Didn't blink. The kind that pinned you in place and dared you to move.
Aria froze.
Her breath hitched before she could stop it.
She squeezed her eyes shut—too late.
Because even with them closed, the image burned sharp behind her lids. Her traitorous gaze had already memorized him. The slope of his shoulders. The lines of his abdomen—defined, infuriatingly distracting—pulling her in like gravity had changed its mind.
Don't look. Don't think.
Her body disagreed.
She opened her eyes.
Just a crack.
Her eyes betrayed her instantly, dragging downward, lingering where they had no business lingering. Her fingers twitched—barely noticeable—but the urge was there, subconscious and dangerous.
She took a step forward before her brain caught up.
Her hand lifted.
Halfway.
Reality slammed back in.
When she caught herself, Aria snapped her hand back like she'd brushed fire.
Her breath stuttered. Once. Twice.
Lucien noticed everything.
The way her fingers curled into her palm.The way her gaze betrayed her before her face could recover.The way her pulse jumped in her throat like it was trying to escape.
Slowly—deliberately—he shut the bathroom door behind him with his foot. Click.
The sound was loud in the silence.
"You're very comfortable in my room," he said, voice low, calm… amused in that dangerous way that meant he already knew the answer.
Aria straightened instantly, spine snapping into place. She lifted her chin, forcing arrogance where her nerves were still buzzing.
"I knocked," she lied smoothly. "You didn't answer."
Lucien took a step forward.
Then another.
Water slid down his collarbone, traced the line of his chest, disappeared beneath the towel like it knew exactly where to go. He didn't rush. He never rushed. Power didn't need to.
"And that," he said, eyes dropping briefly to the plate of croissants on the side table, "explains the food. Not the sitting. Not the sigh."
Her jaw tightened.
"I came to say thank you," she shot back. "For… helping. And for letting me roam the house like a bored ghost."
A corner of his mouth lifted. Not a smile. A warning.
"Funny," he murmured. "Because you look less like someone saying thank you… and more like someone searching."
Her heart thumped once. Hard.
Lucien stopped right in front of her chair. Too close. Close enough that she could smell soap and heat and something distinctly him. He reached out—not to touch her—but to lift the edge of the plate.
"You know," he continued casually, "most people explore with their eyes. You explore with intent."
Aria forced herself to meet his gaze now. Fully. Boldly.
"And most people," she said, sweet as sugar, "don't lock their doors with fingerprints."
That did it.
His eyes sharpened—just a fraction—but it was enough to tell her she'd stepped on a landmine and he'd decided not to let it explode. Yet.
He placed the plate down slowly.
Then he leaned in, bracing one hand on the arm of her chair, trapping her without touching her.
"So listen carefully," Lucien said, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "This house doesn't hide secrets. It buries them. And anyone digging without permission usually ends up lost."
Aria's lips curved—not in fear, not in apology.
"Good," she replied softly. "I've always been good at finding my way out."
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Steam curled. Tension stretched thin. Two predators pretending they weren't circling.
Then Lucien straightened, stepped back, and picked up a croissant.
"Leave the food," he said calmly. "And next time you come into my room… knock louder."
She stood, smoothing her clothes, heart still racing.
"Oh, Lucien," she said lightly as she turned for the door, "next time—"
She glanced back over her shoulder.
"—I won't knock at all."
The door closed behind her.
Lucien stared at it for a long second.
Then, slowly, he smiled.