Novels by Lucy

Elias pov The street lamps blurred past as I drove, each one a smear of orange light against the dark. My hands were locked on the wheel, knuckles white, the engine growling as I pushed the car faster.Julien's apartment replayed in my head. Her dress bunched. His hand on her waist. The way she'd looked at me when the door opened—guilty, caught, but not sorry.Not sorry.I'd never felt anything like this. Not with the models, the socialites, the women who passed through my bed like seasons. I'd never cared. But Mira had crawled under my skin in a single night, and now she was tangled with my brother, and I couldn't breathe.I pulled over. The car shuddered to a stop. I sat there, engine idling, my forehead against the steering wheel, and tried to remember how to exist.My phone buzzed. I ignored it.Another buzz. Still ignored.Then a third, and I grabbed it, ready to smash it against the dashboard.Unknown number. You have 24 hours remaining.The blackmailer. I'd forgotten. In the c

Mira pov The knife was a cold anchor in my grip. Onions. Dice. Repeat. The rhythm should have steadied me, the way it always did—but my hands were trembling, and every slice felt jagged, wrong. Elias is here. Elias is his brother. Elias saw me. The kitchen hummed around me. Steam rose from the flattop. Luis called something to Maria, and she laughed, the sound tinny and distant. I kept my eyes on the cutting board, on the half-moons of white piling beneath my blade. "Your wrist is stiff again." Julien's voice came from behind me, low and close. I hadn't heard him approach. His hand brushed my elbow, guiding my arm into a looser angle. "Relax," he said. "You're fighting the knife. Let it do the work." I exhaled. Forced my shoulders down. The blade moved smoother, cleaner. "Better." He didn't step away. His presence was a warm pressure at my back. "He's gone, by the way. Left through the service entrance." The onion blurred. I blinked hard, refusing to let the sting wi

Elias pov The dining room blurred at the edges. Crystal. Linen. The low murmur of conversation. All of it narrowed to the woman standing three feet from my table, a plate trembling in her hand, her dark eyes wide with the same shock that had just cracked through my chest.Mira.In chef whites.Her hair was pulled back, a few strands escaping at her temples. A faint sheen of sweat on her brow. She looked exhausted and alive and utterly out of place among the chandeliers and silverware.She looked like she belonged here anyway."Your plate, sir." Her voice came out steady. A professional mask sliding into place, the way she'd once dressed herself in my bed before walking out into the morning.I said nothing. I couldn't find the words. My eyes moved over her—the sharp line of her jaw, the steady hands, the way she held herself like the kitchen had burned something new into her spine."Sir?" she said again, and this time the word had teeth."Mira."Something flickered across her face. Pa

Mira pov The alarm screamed at 4:00 AM. I slapped it silent and lay there, heart hammering, the dark ceiling pressing down. The futon creaked as I swung my legs over the edge. Cold linoleum. Deep breath. By 4:30 I was on the bus, clutching a thermos of coffee so black it could have been motor oil. The city slid past in smears of headlight and shadow. I rehearsed knife cuts in my head—julienne, brunoise, chiffonade—as if muscle memory could protect me from falling apart. The Aethelred Hotel rose from the fog like a glass monument. I paused at the service entrance, my reflection caught in the polished steel door, and pushed through. The kitchen was already alive. Steam hissed from a pot on the far burner. A radio played something jazz, low and scratchy. Stainless steel gleamed under fluorescent lights that made everything look clinical and raw at once. Three cooks moved in silent choreography—one at the stove, one at the prep station, one scrubbing the sink like it had perso

Mira pov The elevator doors sealed behind him. I stood in the penthouse, my fingers still tingling from the brush of his chest, my lips still swollen from his kiss. He was gone. The silence filled the space like water, pressing against my ears, my lungs, my chest. I stood there for I don't know how long—seconds, minutes, an eternity—staring at the closed door, waiting for it to open again. It didn't. My legs carried me to the living room. I gathered my supplies mechanically—the spray bottle, the microfiber cloths, the vacuum. My hands moved on their own, packing the cleaning caddy with the precision of a robot. Fool. The word rose from somewhere deep, unbidden and sharp. I clamped down on it, shoved it back, but it surfaced again, stronger. Fool. Stupid, desperate fool. I'd let him touch me again. I'd let him kiss me, press me against the counter, make me believe he wanted something real. And the moment his phone rang, he'd turned into a stranger. I wasn't worth fi

Elias pov The phone felt like a brand against my ear. "Mr. Blackwood." The voice was distorted, likely a modulator, but the amusement cut through clean. "I hope I'm not interrupting." I turned my back on Mira. On the kitchen. On the warmth I'd let myself feel for the first time in months. "Who is this?" "Someone who knows you took a woman from the Obsidian Club three nights ago. Someone who has photographs. Someone who thinks your shareholders would find them very interesting." The words landed like ice water down my spine. I kept my voice flat. "You have the wrong person." "Do I? The woman in the black dress. The private elevator. The penthouse. The belt around your fist." A pause. "Shall I describe the position she was in when you knelt before her?" My jaw locked. The kitchen was fifteen feet behind me, Mira standing there, still tasting my mouth on hers, still thinking this was something simple. "I don't know what you want," I said, "but this conversation is over.