Cold Hands, Warm Lies

The heels weren’t hers.

Too high, too glossy, too loud for someone who spent the past year avoiding attention. But tonight, she needed to disappear into the noise to blend in with the scent of overpriced perfume and lies laced in laughter.

Sera Duvall adjusted the tray in her grip, fingers trembling slightly from the cold. Not the chill of the air, but the chill of the room the kind that clung to polished glass walls and designer gowns. The gala pulsed behind her like a living thing: strings of chandeliers, men in sharp tuxedos, women with smiles like razors.

She kept her eyes low. Avoided the faces.

This wasn’t about mingling. It was about intel.

A name whispered two weeks ago at a storage facility in Queens. A face caught in a reflection in one of Elise’s old photos half-turned, watching. Sera had blown it up a hundred times, mapped every pixel. The curve of his jaw. The exact line of his cufflink.

Lucien Calder.

The last man seen with her sister before she vanished.

Sera weaved through the crowd with practiced ease, offering flutes of champagne to people who would forget her face before the night was over. That was good. That was the plan.

She didn’t belong here. Not in this kind of world. But for tonight, she was invisible and invisibility could be lethal if used right.

"Eyes up," barked the floor supervisor in her earpiece. "You're walking past the VIP lounge. No accidents this time, Duvall."

Sera didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.

She turned, careful and controlled, her gaze sweeping. And there he was.

Lucien Calder.

Standing like a ghost carved from obsidian at the edge of the private lounge. Talking to no one. Watching everyone.

He wasn’t beautiful. He was precise. Hair smoothed back with surgical intention, navy suit molded to him like sin, and eyes sharp, pale, unreadable. They skimmed the room as if calculating who mattered and who didn’t.

Her tray dipped slightly.

He didn’t see her. Not yet. Good.

She moved again, this time toward the east wing hallway. Past the velvet ropes, past the laughter and light. One quick slip through a side door marked Staff Only, and the world dimmed.

The hall was narrow. Quieter. Cold in a way the ballroom would never be.

She pulled the stolen keycard from her bra and scanned the lock. A soft click. The panel turned green.

Inside the restricted wing, the lighting changed cool blue, almost sterile. Art hung on the walls that cost more than her student debt. And at the end of the hall…

A door. Frosted glass. With a single name etched in steel.

L. Calder.

Sera exhaled once. Then reached for the handle.

"You're not supposed to be here."

The voice came from behind her. Smooth. Low. Chilling.

She turned slowly.

Lucien stood five feet away, no sound from his steps, no warning. Up close, he was worse, more dangerous, more beautiful in the way predators were. Something in his gaze flickered. Recognition?

"Lost?" he asked, tilting his head.

Her brain screamed. Lie. Fast.

“I I was told to bring champagne ”

He took a step forward.

“You’re not wearing a name tag.”

Shit.

Sera dropped the tray. It shattered on the floor, glass and gold liquid everywhere. But she was already moving, already running down the hall

His hand caught her wrist.

Ice. Strong. Absolute.

“No need to run,” Lucien said, calm. Too calm. “I don’t bite.”

A pause. A ghost of a smile.

“Unless you want me to.”

Sera’s breath caught.

He was too close now, the scent of expensive cologne and something colder steel, maybe curling around her like a noose. His grip wasn’t painful. Just unshakable.

“I’m I'm new,” she managed, eyes darting toward the door behind him. “Wrong hallway. I didn’t mean to ”

“Lie better,” Lucien said, voice low. “You’re not even sweating.”

“I’m not lying,” she snapped.

His eyes dropped to her mouth, lingered there a second too long. “You just found the one hallway with no cameras, no guests, and no exit signs.”

Silence.

“You were coming for me,” he said quietly. “Weren’t you?”

Sera’s pulse roared in her ears. She opened her mouth then closed it. He smiled, just slightly. Not kindness. Something else.

He released her wrist.

Her arm dropped, aching from the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Lucien stepped back, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Tell me your name.”

She hesitated.

“You don’t work for the caterers,” he added. “Your shoes are six years out of season and your ID badge is from a gala we hosted two months ago. My security chief remembers everything. So either you’re a terrible thief…”

He leaned closer.

“Or you’re a very clever liar.”

Sera’s voice finally returned. “What do you think?”

His lips curved into something sharp. “That depends on whether you’re planning to run again.”

“What if I am?”

Lucien’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned and calmly opened the frosted glass door.

“Then I suggest you choose fast,” he said over his shoulder, disappearing into the dark beyond. “Because once you’re inside, it’s going to be very hard to leave.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Sera stared at it.

Her heart said run.

But her sister’s face flashed behind her eyes, and the photo she’d memorized the curve of Lucien’s shoulder in the background burned like ice in her mind.

She reached for the handle.

And stepped into the dark.

The door whispered shut behind her, sealing out the music, the laughter, the world she actually understood.

Inside was silence.

No clutter. No clutter anywhere.

Just sleek black floors, a wide desk of brushed steel and matte obsidian, a wall of smart glass that faced the city like it owned it. The room smelled like cold air and untouched power.

Lucien stood by the windows, his hands tucked behind his back, posture perfect. Watching the skyline like it might whisper a secret just for him.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he.

The silence stretched like wire between them thin, high-tension, one sharp move from snapping.

“You have five seconds to explain why you were outside my office,” he said finally, without turning. “And I’ll know if you lie.”

Sera’s throat burned. But she forced her voice steady. “My sister. Elise Duvall. She disappeared two years ago. Last seen at one of your charity events.”

Lucien didn’t react.

No twitch. No intake of breath. Just stillness.

She continued. “I found a photo. You were in it.”

Still nothing.

Then he spoke, too soft. “You broke into my home… because of a photograph?”

“No,” she said. “Because you looked at her. Like you knew her. Like you were the last person to see her alive.”

That made him turn.

Slowly.

The full weight of his gaze landed on her and Sera swore the temperature dropped another degree. His expression was unreadable. Not cold. Not warm. Just… blank.

And that blankness was worse than denial.

“I meet thousands of women a year,” he said. “I don’t memorize the names of ghosts.”

The words hit like a slap, but she held her ground.

"She wasn't a ghost. She was my sister."

He stepped forward. One step. Then another.

Sera stayed frozen, even as her breath caught in her chest. Lucien moved like a shadow shaped into flesh precise, quiet, and far too close.

"You're not the first to come looking," he said, voice low. "But you're different."

"How?"

"You don’t want justice," he said. "You want blood."

Silence.

Sera’s hand curled into a fist at her side.

Then he reached into his inner jacket pocket. Slowly. Deliberately. Pulled out a phone, unlocked it and turned the screen toward her.

It was a photo.

Of Elise.

Alive.

Smiling.

Time-stamped… two weeks ago.

Sera’s stomach dropped.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered.

Lucien stared at her.

And said nothing.