Aurora had not meant to fall asleep.
She had stayed up late in her bedroom, thinking about Lucien's words—the look in his eyes when he said, "Stay, not because of the contract. Stay because your heart wants to."
The memory played like a silent film behind her eyelids.
By the time her alarm buzzed, sunlight was already streaking across the floor.
She rose with a start, annoyed with herself for not locking the door again.
But more than that—annoyed that she hadn't wanted to.
She stepped into the hallway barefoot, her silk robe tied hastily around her waist.
And there he was.
Lucien. Standing at the window at the far end, dressed in a black button-down shirt and slacks, coffee in hand, as if he'd been waiting all night.
"You should stop doing that," she said.
He turned, eyes slow to meet hers. "Doing what?"
"Lingering."
A shadow of a smile flickered. "I wasn't lingering. I was thinking."
"About what?"
"You." He took a sip. "And what I'd do if I stopped being the man I promised to be."
Her stomach tightened. "Don't."
Lucien moved toward her slowly, the air shifting with his every step. She could hear the soft tap of his shoes against the marble floor. She backed up instinctively.
But he didn't touch her.
He just looked down at her with that same unreadable intensity he always wore when he was restraining something far more dangerous.
"You say don't," he said. "But your eyes say stay."
She flinched, but didn't look away. "You don't get to decide how I feel."
He nodded. "I know."
Then his voice dropped. "But I can't stop wanting to."
Later that morning, Aurora received a call from an old friend—Leah, her college roommate and one of the few people in her life who knew nothing about the contract.
"Let's do brunch," Leah insisted. "I haven't seen you since the wedding you didn't invite me to."
Aurora laughed softly. "It wasn't much of a wedding."
"That's what rich people always say."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, yes, not rich. Just married to a man who owns half the skyline."
Aurora bit her lip. "Fine. Brunch. But it has to be somewhere… low-key."
"Scared the paparazzi will catch you kissing your cold CEO husband?"
"I'd have to kiss him first."
Silence.
Then Leah's voice, softer. "Are you okay, Rory?"
Aurora didn't answer immediately. "I don't know yet."
The café was tucked into a side street downtown—small, rustic, with ivy curling up the brick walls and sunlight filtering through vintage windows.
Leah was already waiting, sipping iced coffee, waving frantically when Aurora arrived.
"Damn," she said, pulling her into a hug. "Marriage looks good on you. Or maybe money does."
Aurora rolled her eyes. "I'm still me."
Leah snorted. "You, in a Chanel coat? Doubt it."
They chatted like old times, gossiping, laughing, sipping coffee like nothing had changed.
But something had.
Lucien's shadow lived in the back of Aurora's mind now, never truly gone.
She checked her phone once. Then again.
No messages. No calls.
Why did that bother her?
She got her answer when she returned home.
Lucien was in the library, reading.
Or pretending to.
The moment she walked in, he looked up.
"You left without telling me."
She froze. "Since when do I need your permission?"
"You don't." His voice was calm. But something in it was off. "I just prefer to know when my wife disappears."
She blinked. "I went for brunch. With a friend."
"Which friend?"
"Leah."
His brow furrowed slightly. "And if I hadn't had your schedule tracked, I wouldn't have known."
Her heart skipped. "You what?"
Lucien stood, setting the book aside.
"I have your driver's GPS. Security follows you. For your protection."
She took a step back. "That's not protection. That's surveillance."
"I told you," he said, voice cooling, "I don't like not knowing."
"And I told you I'm not your property."
"No," Lucien said softly. "You're my wife."
He moved forward, slowly, purposefully.
"I've let you walk around this house. Sleep alone. Pretend you're untouched by any of this. But don't mistake my restraint for absence of feeling."
His voice dipped. "Because I feel, Aurora. Too much."
She was breathless, unsure if it was from fear or something darker. Something drawn to the way he looked at her.
"You said I was free to leave," she whispered.
"And you are." His fingers brushed her jaw. "But why haven't you?"
Because you've already gotten under my skin, she didn't say.
Instead, she whispered, "You promised no intimacy unless I consented."
"I remember."
He leaned closer, lips hovering over hers.
"Say the word, and I'll walk away."
She didn't.
Not because she wanted this.
But because she didn't trust her voice not to crack.
He smiled—slow, knowing—and stepped back.
Restraint. But barely.
That night, she couldn't sleep.
Again.
So she wandered.
And somehow, her feet brought her to the indoor pool.
The space was quiet, lit by pale blue lights rippling beneath the water's surface. She slipped off her robe and stepped into the warmth.
It calmed her.
Until she heard footsteps.
Lucien.
Of course.
She turned, water dripping down her shoulders. "Is this part of your surveillance too?"
"No." He was watching her from the edge of the pool. "This was an accident."
"Convenient."
He didn't answer. He just took off his jacket.
Then unbuttoned his shirt.
"Lucien—"
"I'm not touching you," he said. "Just… swimming."
He stepped into the water.
And silence fell.
For five minutes, they swam in opposite ends. Not speaking. Not looking.
But tension crackled in every ripple.
Finally, she surfaced near him, pushing hair from her face.
"I don't get you," she said. "One moment you're cold. The next, you're everywhere."
Lucien swam closer. "Maybe I'm losing control."
"That's not my problem."
"It is," he said softly. "Because you're the one I'm losing it for."
She froze.
And then he kissed her again.
But this time—she didn't stop him.
She let herself fall.
Into the warmth. The fire. The war between them.
His hands gripped her waist underwater, pulling her close.
Her fingers tangled in his hair.
Every part of her screamed to run—and yet, she didn't.
When they broke apart, breathless, she stared into his eyes.
"Why me, Lucien?"
His answer was immediate.
"Because you make me want to be something I'm not."
The next morning, she found a note on her nightstand.
I crossed a line.
I won't do it again.
Unless you cross it back.
—L
And she knew.
They weren't playing a game anymore.
They were falling.
Fast.
And if she didn't pull away soon—
She wouldn't want to.