Lucien's POV:
Some people look at art and see color.
Celeste sees herself.
That's what makes her dangerous.
That's what makes her mine.
I watched her enter the gallery like she was walking into a dream she'd been afraid to speak aloud. She didn't flinch when she saw the new installation. She didn't hesitate to touch it. That's how I knew she was ready. Not to surrender. Not fully. But to stop lying to herself.
When she turned and saw me — she didn't smile.
But her breathing changed.
Faster. Sharper.
Like her body remembered what her mouth refused to say.
I stepped forward. Slowly. No sudden moves. No performance. Just the two of us in a space that belonged to no one else.
She asked me what I saw in her.
I told her the truth. I always will.
She is fire under water — restrained by the very things she thinks protect her. Her career. Her marriage. Her carefully managed empathy. But none of those things hold her together anymore.
She's holding herself together.
With willpower and fear and a quiet scream lodged behind her ribs.
And I want to be the man who hears it.
The one she doesn't have to hide it from anymore.
---
I don't touch her. Not yet.
I step around her instead, slowly, circling the perimeter of her awareness. The air between us tightens. She sits rigidly on the bench, her fingers curled into her lap like she's trying to anchor herself to the moment.
Good. She should be anchored.
Because what's coming next will test every last chain she has.
I stop in front of her.
Close enough for her to feel the heat. Not close enough to touch.
"Why are you here, Celeste?" I ask.
Her eyes flick up to meet mine.
"To see."
I nod once. "To see what?"
She hesitates.
Then, quietly: "What happens when I stop pretending I'm not already yours."
The world goes still for a moment.
She has no idea what she's just given me.
Not obedience. Not surrender.
Willingness.
Willingness is sacred. Because it's born from clarity, not coercion. It means she knows.
And still, she chooses this.
I offer my hand. She stares at it. Then takes it.
Her fingers are cold. But her pulse?
Wild.
---
I don't take her home.
I take her to the penthouse above the gallery. The space I don't use for meetings. The one I've curated for quiet, for clarity. For control.
She doesn't ask questions. Just steps inside like it's another room in a dream.
No one follows us.
No one knows we're here.
I guide her to the center of the room — minimalist, elegant, all sharp corners and soft light. There's nothing to distract. Nothing to hide behind.
She lets go of my hand and looks around. Her voice is a whisper.
"This doesn't feel like you."
I tilt my head. "Because it's not about me."
She turns to face me. "Then what is it?"
I take a step closer.
"It's about what's left when you take everything else away."
She doesn't back down. Doesn't flinch. She's learning.
I walk to the bar in the corner. Pour her a glass of water. I hand it to her, and she takes it with both hands. Drinks slowly. Watching me over the rim.
She's waiting for me to make a move.
But this isn't about moving.
It's about unmaking.
---
"You think I want to break you," I say, my voice low, measured.
She doesn't speak.
"You think this is about dominance. About seduction. About possession."
Still, no answer. Just the sound of her breath. The tension in her spine.
I walk back to her, take the glass from her hand, and set it down.
Then I say it, quiet but unflinching:
"I don't want to break you, Celeste."
I lean in — just enough for her to feel my breath at her temple.
"I want to free you."
Her breath catches.
Then she whispers, "From what?"
I smile.
"From the lie that you're still asleep."
---
I don't take her then. I don't even kiss her.
I press two fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face up to mine.
And I look. I let her feel the weight of my attention.
Let her sit in the center of her own desire without running from it.
This is what she's never been given. Not by Damien. Not by the world.
Permission to feel without apology.
She starts to tremble. Not in fear.
In awareness. Of how badly she wants this.
I drop my hand. Step back.
"Go home," I say, voice rough. "Not because I want you gone. But because I want you to come back."
She blinks. "Lucien…"
"I won't touch you until you ask."
Her lips part. "You think I won't?"
I walk to the door and open it.
"I think you already are."
She walks past me — slow, composed.
But I see it. The fire in her step. The storm behind her eyes.
She doesn't look back. She doesn't have to.
I already know:
The next time we're in this room, she won't be walking out.
Not until she's mine in every way that counts.