Time passed without words.
Aria walked ahead, her steps light but purposeful.
Behind her—
Lucien's footsteps echoed in perfect rhythm with hers.
Not chasing.
Not following.
Matching.
She felt him there without turning, felt the weight of his attention settle between her shoulder blades. Every corridor they crossed narrowed the distance between suspicion and truth.
She slowed.
Then stopped.
"That room," Aria said casually, pointing down the hall. "What's in there?"
Lucien didn't hesitate.
"That," he said calmly, "is my study."
She already knew that.
The silence stretched—just long enough for her to wonder if he'd refuse.
He didn't.
Lucien stepped forward and placed his hand against the lock.
A soft chime.
The door slid open.
Aria's eyes flicked to his hand.
Fingerprint lock, she noted instantly.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
She walked in first.
The room smelled like leather, old paper, and something colder—control. Books lined the walls. Screens embedded seamlessly. No clutter. No softness. This was a mind, not a comfort space.
Lucien gestured to a chair.
"Sit."
She did.
He pulled another chair and sat across from her, close enough that she could see the faint tension in his jaw, the stillness that came before a storm.
His gaze sharpened.
"So," Lucien said evenly, folding his hands, "why did you choose this room?"
There it was.
The question wasn't about the room.
It was about her.
Aria leaned back slightly, letting her posture relax—letting him think he was in control. Inside, her thoughts raced.
If I can get his fingerprints, she calculated, I can come back. Alone.
She tilted her head, meeting his eyes.
"Because it feels like the only honest place in this house," she said lightly. "Everything else is staged."
Lucien studied her.
"Honest," he repeated. "You think I'm honest in here?"
She shrugged. "I think people hide where they feel safe."
His gaze darkened, something unreadable passing through it.
"And what do you think I'm hiding?" he asked quietly.
Aria smiled—soft, dangerous.
"That's what I'm trying to figure out."
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Lucien leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"You're smarter than you pretend to be," he said. "And worse—you think I don't see it."
She held his gaze, pulse steady.
"I think," Aria replied, "you see exactly what you want to see."
His lips curved—not quite a smile.
"Careful," he murmured. "Curiosity gets people trapped."
She leaned in just enough that her knee brushed his—accidental. Intentional.
"Good thing," she whispered, eyes flicking to his hands, "I've never been afraid of cages."
Lucien stilled.
For the first time since she entered the room—
He didn't look like the man in control.
He looked like a man realizing his wife wasn't just searching rooms—
She was studying him.
Lucien watched her too closely.
Aria noticed it a heartbeat too late.
She shifted forward, letting her fingers brush the edge of the desk, pretending interest—eyes roaming, tone light. Her knee nudged his again, softer this time, calculated. Her hand lifted, drifting toward his wrist like it belonged there.
Casual.
Intimate.
Almost careless.
Almost.
Lucien's fingers closed around her wrist mid-motion.
Firm. Precise. Unmistakable.
The room went still.
Aria's breath caught—not from fear, but from the sudden awareness of how strong his grip was. Not painful. Not rough. Just final.
Slowly, Lucien looked down at where her hand hovered inches from his.
Then he looked back up at her.
"Don't," he said quietly.
Not angry.
Not raised.
Worse.
Knowing.
Aria didn't pull away. Instead, she lifted her gaze to his, eyes wide in mock innocence.
"What?" she asked softly.
Lucien leaned closer, his grip tightening just enough to remind her she'd miscalculated.
"You don't touch things you don't understand," he murmured. "Especially not in my study."
Her pulse spiked. She forced a small laugh. "You're paranoid."
His thumb brushed over her wrist—slow, deliberate—right where her pulse hammered against her skin.
"No," he said calmly. "I'm observant."
He released her hand.
But the damage was done.
Aria sat back, smoothing her expression, but inside her mind was racing.
He saw it.
Lucien rose from his chair and walked behind her, footsteps measured. She felt him there—felt his presence hover like a shadow over her shoulders.
"You came into my house curious," he continued, voice low, almost conversational. "You asked about locked rooms. You watched my hands."
He stopped behind her chair.
"You're not bored," he said softly. "You're hunting."
Aria's fingers curled against the armrest.
She tilted her head, refusing to give ground. "And what if I am?"
Lucien leaned down, close enough that his breath brushed her ear.
"Then you should be smarter about it," he whispered.
"Because I always notice when someone wants access to me."
A pause.
Then, almost gently—
"And next time," he added, "I won't stop you with a warning."
He straightened, stepped away, and moved toward the door.
"I think the tour is over," Lucien said coolly. "For today."
The door opened.
As Aria stood, heart pounding, one terrifying thought settled in her mind:
She hadn't failed.
But she had been seen.
And in Lucien's world—
Being seen meant being tested next
Aria spent the evening pacing.
The room felt smaller than it had in the morning. The walls pressed in, the silence too loud. Her thoughts kept circling the same problem, again and again, like a tongue worrying a sore tooth.
Fingerprints.
Lucien's fingerprints.
He was careful. Too careful. Everything locked, layered, deliberate. Touch was controlled. Proximity rationed. Even when he'd grabbed her wrist, it had been instinctive—not careless.
She flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
And then—
Something else ached.
A softer ache.
Her hands.
She hadn't baked in days.
Baking was how she thought. How she breathed. How she remembered who she was before powerful men and locked doors tried to define her.
Croissants, she thought suddenly.
Warm. Flaky. Precise. Time-consuming in the best way.
The bed seemed to pull at her, heavy and tempting, whispering sleep. She ignored it.
Aria sat up.
"No," she muttered, already tying her hair back. "I need this."
The kitchen was quiet when she entered—dim lights, stainless steel counters gleaming faintly. No one questioned her. No one ever did at night.
She set her tablet on the counter and propped it up, tapping play on a drama she'd already seen but wanted to feel again. Familiar voices filled the room, comforting background noise.
She rolled up her sleeves.
Flour. Butter. Yeast. Milk.
Her movements were automatic now—measuring, pouring, mixing. The dough came together under her palms, soft and elastic, responding to pressure the way truth sometimes did.
Her hands sank into it.
Flour coated her fingers. Smudged her palms. Dusted her wrists.
She smiled faintly for the first time all day.
Then a scene on the tablet caught her attention—one she liked. She reached out instinctively, fingers brushing the screen to rewind.
The tablet didn't respond immediately.
She frowned and looked down.
The screen was smeared.
White fingerprints bloomed across the glass—clear, perfect ridges etched in flour. Every whorl. Every line.
Aria froze.
The drama kept playing.
Her heartbeat didn't.
She stared at the screen.
At the prints.
At how easy they were to see.
Slowly—very slowly—a bulb lit in her mind.
Not bright.
Not explosive.
Just steady, dangerous clarity.
Her lips parted.
"…Oh."
She lifted her hands, turning them under the light. Flour-dusted. Cooperative. Honest.
Her gaze flicked to the tablet again.
Fingerprints don't need force, she realized.
They need opportunity.
And suddenly, Lucien's warning echoed differently in her head.
I always notice when someone wants access to me.
Aria smiled to herself—small, sharp, thoughtful.
"Let's see," she murmured, pressing her floury thumb deliberately to the glass, "if you notice this."
The dough rested beside her.
The oven preheated.
And somewhere between butter and flour—
Aria had just found her way back into the game.