Elara learned quickly that Lucien Blackwood's world ran on rules.
Not the loud kind—no shouting, no threats—but the quiet, immovable kind that pressed against her chest until she learned how to breathe around them.
The penthouse was too large for just the two of them.
Too quiet.
Too polished.
Every surface gleamed with intention. Nothing was out of place, not even the silence. It wrapped around her as she followed the housekeeper through halls of glass and steel, past floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city like it was something owned rather than lived in.
"This will be your room, miss," the woman said kindly, opening a door at the end of the hall.
Elara stepped inside and froze.
The bedroom was beautiful—soft neutral tones, a king-sized bed dressed in linen, a reading chair by the window, fresh flowers on the dresser. It looked like something out of a magazine. Something meant for someone important.
Someone who belonged here.
"I don't need all this," Elara murmured, unease curling in her stomach.
The housekeeper smiled gently. "Mr. Blackwood insists."
Of course he did.
Lucien insisted on everything.
Later that evening, Elara sat stiffly at the long dining table, her hands folded in her lap. She hadn't eaten since morning, but hunger felt insignificant compared to the tension pooling beneath her ribs.
Lucien entered without sound.
She felt his presence before she saw him—like the air itself had shifted.
He wore a charcoal suit, jacket removed, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His movements were controlled, economical. He took the seat across from her, placing a slim folder on the table between them.
"The rules," he said simply.
Her fingers curled instinctively.
"I already signed a contract."
"This," Lucien replied calmly, "is the reality behind it."
He slid the folder toward her.
Elara opened it.
Pages of neatly typed boundaries stared back at her.
No visitors without approval.
No social media.
No interviews.
No unsupervised outings.
No contact with former associates tied to the scandal.
And then—
No emotional involvement.
Her breath caught.
Lucien watched her closely now, his gaze sharp, unreadable.
"This arrangement protects you," he continued. "But it only works if there are no misunderstandings."
Elara lifted her eyes. "And what exactly would be a misunderstanding?"
Something flickered across his face—brief, dangerous, gone too quickly to name.
"You looking at me as anything other than what I am," he said.
Her heart skipped painfully.
"And what are you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Your guardian," Lucien replied. "Your shield. Nothing more."
The words landed heavier than they should have.
She nodded, even as something inside her cracked.
"Yes," she said. "Of course."
Dinner passed in near silence. Lucien spoke briefly about logistics—her classes would resume online, security would accompany her when needed, everything she required would be provided.
Everything except freedom.
Later, Elara stood alone on the balcony outside her room, the night air cool against her skin. The city sparkled below, indifferent and alive.
She hugged her arms around herself.
She hadn't meant to fall asleep out there.
But exhaustion won.
She woke to warmth.
A blanket draped over her shoulders.
And Lucien.
He stood far too close, his hand hovering just above her arm as if he'd caught himself mid-motion.
For one suspended second, they stared at each other.
The city disappeared.
The rules dissolved.
There was only the quiet truth between them—unspoken and dangerous.
Lucien stepped back first.
"This can't happen again," he said, his voice lower than before.
"I was asleep," she whispered.
"I know."
And somehow, that made it worse.
He turned and walked away, his retreat sharp and final.
Elara clutched the blanket tighter, her heart racing.
Because in that brief moment—before control snapped back into place—she had seen it.
Not indifference.
Not duty.
But restraint stretched to its breaking point.
And she understood something terrifying:
The rules weren't there because Lucien didn't feel anything.
They were there because he felt too much.