Chapter 4

Lucien's POV

Lucien Marchesi had never bought a woman twice.

Not in money. Not in attention.

Not in memory.

But this one—Seraphina Vale—refused to be forgettable.

He watched her from behind the library’s glass pane, the one that overlooked the western garden. She stood on her balcony across the courtyard, arms bare, wind catching her dark hair like it was trying to carry her away. She didn’t hug herself for warmth. Didn’t pace. Just stood there.

Still.

Focused.

Like she was learning the sky.

Or memorizing the edge of the balcony for a future fall.

He should’ve called Raina to bring her inside.

He didn’t.

Instead, he listened to the music that wasn’t playing. To the strings his sister hadn’t touched in ten years. And wondered why this woman, of all people, had dared to stand that still in his house.

His estate wasn’t built for calm.

It was a trap disguised as a palace.

It made you feel safe. Until you bled.

He poured a whiskey but didn’t drink it.

Lucien didn’t have vices. Not the kind that showed.

Alcohol dulled. Sex distracted. And emotion?

Emotion was a disease.

His father had died of it. Fell in love with a mole, trusted the wrong men, left a son with scars deeper than any bullet wound. The Marchesi syndicate was nearly lost to sentiment.

Lucien wouldn’t repeat that mistake.

He had rules for himself. Personal ones, buried beneath the ones his guards memorized.

Never touch what you can’t control.

Never need what you can’t own.

And never look too long at a woman who doesn’t flinch.

Because those were the ones who broke you.

Seraphina Vale didn’t flinch.

Not at the auction. Not in the car. Not when he stared straight through her over breakfast and named the rules like commandments.

She didn’t fidget, didn’t blink, didn’t submit.

She performed.

Which meant she was dangerous.

And it thrilled him more than it should.

Seraphina moved with the kind of effortless grace that made the world feel like it was holding its breath just to watch her. Her presence was magnetic—elegant yet untamed, like fire cloaked in silk. Every glance she gave was laced with mystery, her full lips curved in a smile that hinted at both danger and delight.

Her beauty wasn’t just in the flawless symmetry of her features or the way the light caught in her hair—it was in the way she carried herself, regal and unapologetically alive. She didn’t try to command attention. She simply was the storm people turned to face.

He turned away from the window when he sensed the footsteps behind him—not because they were loud, but because he’d already calculated the shift in silence. Lucien didn’t rely on chance or instinct alone; his mind was a finely tuned instrument, always several moves ahead. He noticed what others dismissed: the weight of a breath, the change in air pressure, the echo of hesitation. It wasn’t just awareness—it was precision. Behind his calm exterior lived a sharp, calculating brilliance that made people underestimate him once—and never twice.

Anton slipped into the room, tailored and trimmed as always. His consigliere since Lucien had taken power at twenty-three. Part handler, part shadow, all precision.

“She hasn’t tried to leave,” Anton said without prompting. “No attempts to access the north corridor. No communications requested. She spoke with Raina. Polite. Measured.”

Lucien nodded, folding his hands behind his back. “She’ll wait.”

Anton hesitated. “You’re sure she’s not a plant?”

“She was sold in good faith. Vetted. Her family delivered her willingly.”

“Even moles bleed,” Anton said. “And beautiful ones bleed louder.”

Lucien let the words hang for a moment.

Then: “She’s not a spy. She’s a survivor.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

“She’s not stupid enough to die for a cause,” Lucien replied coldly. “She wants something. And if we’re patient, she’ll show us what.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Lucien turned back to the window.

“Then I’ll find it myself.”

The estate had eyes. Not cameras. Not recordings.

Lucien hated digital trails.

Instead, his house watched through its people.

Raina. The gardeners. The kitchen maids. The gatekeeper.

All loyal. All silent.

He didn’t need film when he had fear.

They’d tell him if Seraphina stepped out of line.

But she hadn’t. Not yet.

She’d explored her wing of the estate slowly, measured. Spent time in the reading parlor. Stood too long before the locked door beneath the east staircase.

He’d watched her fingers brush the handle. Just once.

Then she turned away.

Clever.

Curious.

Predictable—for now.

_ _ _ _ _

He entered her wing that evening without announcing himself.

The guards tensed but didn’t stop him.

Lucien walked past the velvet-draped hallway, past her open sitting room, to the heavy doors of her bedroom.

They were ajar.

A test.

He pushed them open.

The room was quiet. Candlelight flickered. The balcony doors were closed now, wind rustling the curtains like breath.

And Seraphina stood in front of the fireplace, barefoot, reading one of the books from the shelf.

She didn’t turn.

“I was wondering when you’d come,” she said.

Lucien watched her back. “You were expecting me?”

“No,” she said. “But this place doesn’t leave room for real surprises.”

He stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him.

Her voice was calm. Too calm.

“Why a library in a cage?” she asked, still reading.

“Because sharp minds cut deeper than blades.”

She turned then. Slowly. Gracefully. Not submissive.

Just deliberate.

Like a queen acknowledging a trespasser in her court.

Lucien met her eyes.

“You’ve been watching me,” she said.

“I own you.”

“And you think that makes me visible?”

He didn’t answer.

She stepped closer. One slow step at a time.

Lucien didn’t move.

“You want me afraid,” she said.

“No,” he replied. “I want you understood.”

A flicker of surprise touched her face. Not much. Just enough to show he’d unsettled her.

She crossed her arms. “Then understand this—I don’t break. I bend, I bleed, but I don’t break.”

Lucien tilted his head. “Even marble cracks under pressure.”

“Then you’d better bring fire, not knives.”

Silence fell.

Tense. Thick.

He stepped toward her now, two slow steps. He watched her jaw set, her breath slow, her chin tilt.

Not fear.

Never fear.

Challenge.

He stopped just close enough to touch her — but didn’t.

“You’re not what they said,” he murmured.

Her voice was a whisper. “Neither are you.”

After he left, Lucien returned to the vault room.

It was hidden behind a false wall in the cellar — shielded with biometric locks and lined with coded records, black-market histories, and memories no one was allowed to speak aloud.

He entered alone. Always alone.

Tonight, he stared at the violin.

Dustless. Untouched.

He reached for it but didn’t lift it.

Seraphina had asked about music at breakfast.

Offhand. Innocent.

Too specific.

He remembered her exact phrasing: “Do the walls echo here, or does everything disappear?”

Not a question someone asked on day one.

She was digging.

She was watching.

And if he wasn’t careful...

He might enjoy it.

Anton found him an hour later.

“She’s clean,” Anton said. “At least, nothing flagged. But something’s off.”

Lucien didn’t look up. “Go on.”

“Her medical file was redacted. Her educational records were cut off at university. But no criminal record. No rehab. No scandals.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “That’s suspicious?”

Anton nodded once. “No one’s that clean unless someone made them that way.”

Lucien finally looked up. “So the question isn’t what she’s hiding... but who’s hiding her.”

Anton crossed his arms. “You’re going to let her stay?”

Lucien considered it.

Then smiled. Faint. Inevitable.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Lucien turned back to the violin.

“Because if I push too soon, she’ll give me nothing.”

“And if you wait too long?”

Lucien's fingers hovered over the strings.

“Then she’ll give me everything.”