Lucien's POV
The café was quiet, but not the serene kind of quiet that came from peace. This was the stillness before a storm, the kind that hummed with expectation. I sat in the corner booth, back against the wall, the full length of the glass window at my side giving me a perfect view of the street. My fingers drummed against the porcelain cup of untouched coffee, though it wasn't impatience. It was habit — a rhythm I fell into when my mind was working through too many angles at once.
The morning light cut across the street in fractured gold, and every time the café door opened, a gust of warm air drifted in along with the scent of roasted beans. But my attention wasn't on the aroma or the décor. It was on the moment I knew was coming — the moment she would walk in.
Elara.
The name had a certain elegance to it, sharp at the end, yet soft enough to roll easily off the tongue. I had told myself that this arrangement was purely transactional — a matter of necessity, not sentiment — but when I thought about her, there was always something in me that lingered longer than it should.
She was late, but not enough to offend me. That was good. I dislike tardiness, but I also dislike people who appear too eager. If she had arrived exactly on time, it might have reeked of overcompensation. If she had come too early, it would have suggested desperation. No, this delay was calculated — or perhaps accidental — but either way, it struck the balance I could appreciate.
When she finally appeared, I knew before the door closed behind her. There was a subtle shift in the air, in the way the few other patrons glanced up. She wasn't dressed extravagantly, but she carried herself in a way that demanded space, even in a small café.
Her eyes found mine almost instantly.
She walked toward me, each step even, purposeful. She didn't rush. She didn't falter. The folder in her hands — my folder — was the only detail that mattered.
"Lucien," she greeted, her voice even, polite. Not warm. Not cold. Just... measured.
"Elara." I motioned to the seat opposite me. She sat without hesitation, placing the folder on the table between us. Her fingers lingered on it for the briefest moment before she let go.
"It's signed," she said.
I opened it, not because I doubted her, but because I never took anyone's word for anything. The ink was there, sharp against the page, her signature flowing in confident strokes. I traced the letters with my eyes, imagining the moment she had written them — the pause, the slight tightening of her grip, the realization of what she was committing herself to.
"You didn't have to come in person," I remarked, though we both knew that wasn't entirely true. I wanted her here. I wanted to watch her hand it over.
"I thought it would be... cleaner this way," she replied.
I leaned back, studying her. "And?"
Her brow arched slightly. "And what?"
"You read everything. You understand the terms."
Her lips pressed together for a second, a flicker of something — irritation, maybe — crossing her face. "I did."
Of course she had. I had made sure every line was deliberately unambiguous. There was no love here. No room for romantic indulgence. No affairs. No betrayals. A marriage on paper, designed for stability and image, not for sentiment.
"You agree to all of it?" I pressed.
"I signed it, didn't I?" she said, her tone cool.
I allowed the corner of my mouth to lift, though it wasn't quite a smile. More a recognition of her defiance. She was the kind of woman who would rather walk through fire than admit she was burning. That, I could respect.
"I'll have the legal department file the documentation," I said, closing the folder. My fingers brushed the leather cover — the same one I had chosen deliberately for this contract. It was more than paper; it was the foundation of something I needed to control.
For a moment, we sat in silence, the muted hum of the café filling the space between us. She sipped the coffee the waitress had placed in front of her without asking, as if she owned the right to be comfortable here. That was... intriguing. Most people tried too hard in my presence. She didn't seem to care whether I was impressed or not.
"You don't have to like the terms," I said finally. "You just have to keep them."
Her gaze met mine, steady. "I intend to."
Good.
I studied her a moment longer, memorizing the way she didn't flinch under the weight of my attention. This was going to be an interesting arrangement — more interesting than I had anticipated.
When she stood to leave, I didn't stop her. I only watched as she walked out, her back straight, her chin lifted. She didn't look back.
But I did.
---
The bell above the café door chimed as it closed behind her, and I exhaled slowly, finally taking a sip of my coffee. Bitter, strong — just how I liked it.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed a familiar number.
"Mr. Sinclair," my lawyer's voice came through almost instantly.
"It's done," I said. "File the contract. Effective immediately."
"Yes, sir. And the... clauses?"
"Untouched," I replied. My gaze lingered on the spot where Elara had been sitting. "They stay exactly as they are. Every single one."
Because those rules weren't for her. They were for me.
I had seen what happened when emotions crept into arrangements like this — when desire blurred lines, when trust became a weapon, when affection turned into leverage. I wasn't going to let that happen. Not again.
Still, there was something about her... something that didn't quite fit the tidy little box I had built for this arrangement. She was poised, yes. Controlled. But beneath that, there was a spark I couldn't yet define — and that made her dangerous.
As I left the café, I caught my reflection in the glass. My expression was unreadable, even to myself. This was business. Nothing more.
At least, that was what I intended to keep telling myself.