THIRD PERSON'S POINT OF VIEW
Steam curls from the tub's surface, thick and warm against the cool air of the bathroom. Sera shifts against the porcelain, her breath catching in short bursts.
"Hnngh… ahh… stop that… right there."
"Here. Is this the spot that troubles you?"
"Y-yes—just a little lower. Let me do the other side—ah, that's it."
Lucian's thoughts spiral in a tangle of Russian and English, coarse words settling heavy in his throat. For fuck's sake. This is torture. His shoulders are drawn high, every muscle taut as wire. The washcloth in his hand is slick with water and soap; he feels each soft gasp from Sera as if it were his own skin catching against a rough edge, every whimper a current pulling at his center.
He had planned for simplicity. Washing her, seeing to her needs—it was written in black ink on the contract, a duty like any other. He never imagined how her skin would yield under his touch, how even the smallest shift of her body would send sharp jolts through him. When she tries to press her lips together, to swallow her reactions, he hears them still: each breath, each quiet sigh clear as glass breaking in the silence.
His palm slides down her waist, deliberate and slow. The washcloth glides over cotton underwear thin as spider silk, and beneath it her skin is smooth as river stone. Heat radiates from her, searing through fabric and flesh alike, settling deep in his gut where it burns steady and bright.
Earlier she reached for the body wash, her fingers fumbling but sure, her knuckles white with determination. He held firm, keeping the bottle out of reach and citing the contract as reason enough to stay close. Every word he spoke then—about not being attracted, about her appeal being of no consequence—was false as polished glass, a shield he had built to stand between them.
He presses his lips together until he tastes copper, his focus fixed on the curve of her ribs as he scrubs gently at the skin there. She shivers, her muscles tightening under his hand, and he realizes she is ticklish. The thought sends heat rushing to his face; he sets one palm flat against the tub's edge to steady himself, his gaze dropping to the water where it ripples around her hips.
"I said I'll do it myself. I am perfectly capable. You are just teasing me now. Tormenting me on purpose." Her voice is sharp with anger, but underneath lies something softer, something he cannot name. The corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile—he finds her defiance more compelling than he should.
"Quiet, Seraphina. Control yourself. This is part of our agreement, a necessary piece of what we've made. You have nothing to fear. I will not overstep our boundaries. I would never take advantage of you. I am not that kind of man." The words come easily, rolling from his tongue like rain off a slate roof, and for a moment he almost believes them.
Never take advantage? The thought sits bitter in his mouth. He is already using his position, his power, to keep his hands on her skin. His mind fills with images he has no right to hold, desire building so hot he feels it in the pulse at his temple. He was hard before he even touched her, watching her undress from the doorway with his shoulders braced against wood, feeling as if he had gone days without food. Now that he is close enough to smell the lavender in her hair, every part of him strains toward release.
He is damned, plain and simple. Each new thought, each vision of what he might do to her, pulls him deeper into the current. It takes all his strength to keep his movements steady, to keep his distance even as his fingers crave to pull her close, to give in to what his body demands.
They have been married only hours. The sun still hangs high in the sky over this pretense of a union, and already he fights a pull stronger than any he has known. No woman has ever unspooled him like this. Not the socialites who pressed their bodies against his at parties, eager for his name. Not the heiresses who offered fortunes for the chance to bear his children. He built his empire on cold calculation, on locking away weakness so no one could ever use it against him.
But here he stands, undone by a blind woman he intended to set aside once she gave him an heir. A pawn in his plan, and one who cannot see the sharp lines of his jaw, the emerald of his eyes hidden behind brown contacts, the tattoos winding up his forearms like warnings carved in ink. She does not know the darkness he carries, and somehow that makes her more precious than any treasure he has ever owned.
"Hello? Are you moving at all? Are you still there? You have gone silent on me. Just like everyone else. I told you I would handle this. I am perfectly capable—give me the soap, or at least the shampoo. Let us finish this charade. Let us be done with the awkwardness."
Her voice pulls him back. Even without sight she holds her head high, no trace of fear in her posture. He is used to people shrinking away from him—from his hair cut sharp and dark as a wolf's pelt, from the weight of his name.
"I said I would take care of you."
"Take care of me? You are just standing there. Frozen solid." Frustration edges her words, but he finds himself leaning closer, drawn to the fire in her tone.
"Fine. What about the shampoo? I will let you wash your hair."
"Finally! That is more like it. See? You are not so hard to talk to, sir—"
"Lucian."
"Huh?" She tilts her head, her ears sharp even as her brow furrows in confusion.
He laughs, the sound rough and unfamiliar in his own ears. He hates repeating himself, yet now he says it again. "Call me Lucian."
Sera takes the bottle, her fingers brushing his as she pulls it away. She works suds through her hair, her movements quick and determined, but he feels the tremor in her shoulders each time his hands brush her skin. Ticklishness, yes. But he thinks there is more to it than that.
Thirty minutes pass before he is done. Steam clouds the mirrors, and the air between them hums with a tension so thick he could reach out and hold it in his palm.
"Stay here. I will get your clothes."
Good grief. His accent is perfect. Of course it is—he has money enough to learn anything he wants, Sera thinks, her fingers working through soapy knots in her hair.
"Where would you get clothes? I did not bring anything with me."
Lucian's hand rests on the door handle, his gaze fixed on her for a long moment before he turns. "They are already here. I will be right back. No need to worry."
When he leaves the door clicks shut behind him, and quiet settles over the room so sudden it makes her chest tight. Her thoughts race as fast as her pulse.
Lucian moves down the grand staircase, his steps heavy against the marble. He intends to collect the clothes his secretary prepared, but voices carry up from the foyer—loud, sharp with anger.
"What the hell is wrong with him!"
"Shein, calm down. This is not just Lucian's choice. It is Madam's too. So stop shouting."
"What about me? He promised me. He said he would marry me—but this? A contract marriage? With who? Is that what billionaires do?"
Lucian's jaw tightens. He knows the voice well. Shein Dela Vega—his childhood friend, and the last person he wants to face today. He steps into the foyer, his gaze as cold as winter stone.
"What is all this noise?"
Two figures turn toward him. Shein stands with her hands balled at her sides, her eyes wild with fury. His secretary bows his head and backs away without a word.
Shein crosses the room, her stilettos striking the marble like small hammers. She reaches for his face, but he catches her by the shoulders, holding her steady at arm's length.
"What are you doing here?" His voice holds no warmth.
"Lucian! What happened to us? I thought we had an understanding. You said you would consider it." She clings to his forearms, her voice thick with tears she will not let fall.
He tilts his head, his expression distant as water on glass. "Enough, Shein. I have told you before. I am not interested. We have known each other our whole lives—you are like a sister to me. Nothing more."
"No! I will not accept this. Let me see her. What did she do to you? Did she bewitch you? Just tell me—fuck—tell me."
"Well. Look who is here. Shein Dela Vega. A vision I never expected to see again."
Both turn toward the entrance, where Cathy Vitale stands with her bodyguard close behind. Shopping bags swing from her arm, their designer logos bright against her dark coat. She carries herself like the head of a house—every movement deliberate, every word weighted with authority.
"Madamé Cathy!" Shein releases Lucian and throws her arms around the older woman, stumbling slightly in her high heels.
They kiss on each cheek before Cathy settles onto a sofa, Shein following close beside her. "What are you doing here, dear? I thought you were in Singapore."
"Oh, Madamé—I took the first flight back the moment I heard about the marriage." Her voice carries a dramatic lilt, but hurt sits deep in her eyes.
Cathy laughs softly, though her tone is sharp as a blade. "It is true. Lucian is married now, and I chose his wife myself. Is there something wrong with that?"
Shein falls silent, her jaw clenched tight. Lucian smirks and walks to his grandmother's bodyguard, August—a man near his own age with eyes as keen as his own. "August. Why did you allow her to do the shopping?"
"Madamé insisted, sir. She wanted to select everything herself."
Lucian nods and takes the bags of clothes meant for Sera. Behind him Shein speaks again, her voice low and tight.
"But Madamé—he promised me. He said when he turned twenty-five and had not found anyone—"
"Enough, Shein." Lucian cuts her off, his voice firm. "I will arrange a flight back to Singapore for you tomorrow morning."
Cathy waves a hand in dismissal. "Do not be so harsh. She is still family. You can stay the night, dear. This house is not as large as our home in Russia, but we have plenty of rooms. I will have a maid prepare one for you."
"Oh my gosh—thank you, Madamé!" Shein hugs her again, but her gaze stays fixed on Lucian as he turns to climb the stairs.
She glares after him, her nails digging into her palms until she feels warm blood on her skin. She has known Lucian her entire life. They made an agreement, and she waited for him to keep his word. Now he has cast her aside for a woman she has never even seen.
I will find out who she is, she thinks, her jaw set hard. And I will do whatever it takes to get Lucian back.