Chapter 4: The Rule We Broke Without Touching
The rule wasn't written in the contract, but it existed anyway.
Don't look at each other like that.
I noticed it first in the mornings, when Lucien handed me my tea and our fingers didn't touch, but our eyes did. It lingered too long, slipped too deep, stayed where it didn't belong. We both pretended not to notice. We were very good at pretending.
Until we weren't.
It happened on a Saturday, quiet and ordinary, which somehow made it worse. No school, no work calls, no excuses to stay busy. The house felt too big for just the two of us, every room echoing with things we weren't saying.
I was in the living room, sprawled on the floor with textbooks and snacks, trying to study and failing miserably. Lucien sat on the couch, laptop open, tie discarded, sleeves rolled up. He looked younger like that. Less like a man with too much control and more like a boy who had learned too early how to hide.
"Stop staring," he said without looking up.
"I'm not staring."
"You are."
I scoffed. "You wish."
He finally looked at me then, eyebrow lifting slightly. "You're bad at lying."
"So are you."
That earned a small, almost-smile. It made my stomach flip.
I threw a pillow at him. "Focus on your work, contract husband."
He caught it easily. "Focus on your future, contract wife."
I groaned. "That sounded worse out loud."
We laughed, the sound filling the room, too easy, too familiar. For a moment, everything felt light. Then the laughter faded, and the silence rushed back in, heavier than before.
Lucien closed his laptop. "Do you regret it?"
The question caught me off guard. "Regret what?"
"This," he said, gesturing vaguely between us. "The marriage."
I thought about it. Really thought about it. About the safety. The stability. The laughter. The confusion. The way my heart kept tripping over itself whenever he said my name.
"No," I said finally. "I regret that it's temporary."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Lucien froze.
The air shifted, like something fragile had just cracked.
"Arielle," he said quietly, "you knew it was always going to be."
"I know," I said quickly, sitting up. "I know. I'm not saying I want to change it. I'm just saying… it's hard not to think about the end when it's written so clearly."
He didn't respond right away. When he did, his voice was careful. "Thinking about it won't help."
"Neither will pretending it doesn't exist."
He looked at me then, really looked at me, like he was trying to memorize something he wouldn't be allowed to keep.
That night, the house felt different. Charged. Dangerous.
I took a shower later than usual, letting the hot water calm the storm in my chest. When I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, hair damp, I almost collided with Lucien in the hallway.
We both stopped short.
"I didn't know you were—" he started.
"I didn't know you'd be—" I replied at the same time.
We stared at each other, words failing. His gaze flickered away instantly, respectful, controlled. It shouldn't have mattered.
It did.
"I'll— I'll go," I said, stepping back.
"Yeah," he said quickly. "Goodnight."
I closed my door and leaned against it, heart pounding like I'd just run miles. I slid down to the floor, hugging my knees, hating myself for wanting more than the contract allowed.
Across the hall, Lucien didn't sleep either.
The next few days were worse. We were careful in a way that screamed awareness. No accidental touches. No late-night conversations. No shared silences on the couch. It felt like punishment for something we hadn't technically done.
At school, I snapped at people for no reason. At home, I avoided common spaces. Lucien noticed everything, said nothing.
Until Thursday.
I came home soaked from the rain, exhausted and frustrated, and found him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, cooking.
"You're home early," he said.
"I got drenched," I replied flatly.
He turned off the stove. "Sit. I'll get a towel."
I opened my mouth to refuse, then closed it. I was too tired to fight.
He draped the towel over my shoulders gently, not touching my skin, but close enough that I could feel his warmth. My breath caught.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He didn't move away right away.
"I hate this," I said suddenly.
"Hate what?"
"Acting like we're made of glass."
Lucien's hands tightened on the towel. "It's safer."
"For who?" I asked.
"For both of us."
I turned to face him. "Is it?"
Our faces were inches apart. I could see the tension in his jaw, the restraint in his eyes.
"We said we wouldn't," he said.
"I know."
"We agreed."
"I know," I repeated, voice shaking.
The silence stretched, unbearable.
Lucien stepped back first. "This is exactly why the rule exists."
I laughed, breathless and a little broken. "We haven't even touched."
"And yet," he said quietly, "it already feels like we crossed a line."
That night, I cried again, silently, into my pillow. Not because he rejected me. Because he didn't. Because he wanted to, and still chose to stop.
The rule we broke wasn't physical.
It was worse.
We had started to care.
And once you care, pretending becomes the most exhausting thing in the world.