CHAPTER TEN — BACK TO WHERE IT BEGAN

"What's that?" His voice was carefully neutral, but I could hear the tension underneath.

My heart stuttered. "Nothing. Just... something your mother left."

Lucien's hands dropped from my face as he moved toward the desk. Every step was measured and controlled, but I could see the rigid set of his shoulders, the slight clench of his jaw.

"Lucien, don't…"

But he was already reaching for it.

I lunged forward, my hand closing over the folder just as his fingers touched it. We both froze, our hands overlapping on the damning document.

"It's nothing," I said quickly and a little bit overly anxiously. "Just some... family documents. Your mother wanted me to review them before Friday."

Lucien's grey eyes met mine, and I saw the hurt there, the resignation. "You're lying to me."

"I'm not…"

"Aria." His voice was soft, devastatingly gentle. "In five months, you've lied to me more times than I can count. I know what it looks like." He pulled his hand back slowly. "And I know what it sounds like."

Guilt crashed over me in waves. He was right. I had lied to him constantly, manipulated him, deceived him. And now, when I was actually trying to protect him, he had no reason to believe me.

"She asked me not to show you," I said, which was technically true. "She said it was between her and me."

Something dark flashed across Lucien's face. "Of course she did."

He turned away from me, walking to the window, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The afternoon sun cast his profile in sharp relief, highlighting the tension in every line of his body.

"What did she say to you?" he asked quietly.

"Lucien…"

"Please." The word was barely above a whisper. "Just... tell me the truth. For once, just tell me the truth."

My chest ached. I wanted to tell him everything about the ultimatum, about his mother's coldness, about the impossible choice she'd given me. But I could see the exhaustion in his posture, the weight he already carried.

And I remembered Helena's words: 'I'm sure that would go wonderfully, forcing him to choose between his wife and his mother.'

"She wanted to know my intentions," I said carefully. "Whether I was serious about making this marriage work."

"And?" Lucien's voice was tight.

"And I told her I was." I moved closer to him, close enough to see my reflection in the glass. "I told her I wanted to be a proper wife to you."

Lucien's laugh was hollow, bitter. "I'm sure that went over well."

"She's... protective of you."

"She's controlling." He turned to face me, and the raw emotion in his eyes made me want to cry. "She's been trying to run my life since I was old enough to understand what legacy meant. Who I should marry, how I should run the company, what kind of heir I should produce…"

He stopped abruptly, his eyes widening slightly as if he'd said too much.

My stomach dropped. "Heir?"

Lucien's jaw clenched. "Forget I said that."

"She talked to you about having children?" I pressed, my heart racing. "About... producing an heir?"

"She talks to me about it constantly." Lucien ran a hand through his hair, destroying its perfect styling. "Every conversation, every family dinner, every board meeting where she has the opportunity. The Blackwood legacy, the continuation of the family line, my duty to…" He cut himself off again, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter."

"It does matter." I reached out, touching his arm. "Lucien, what did she say to you about us having children?"

For a long moment, he just looked at me. Then he laughed again, that same hollow sound that broke my heart.

"She said the only reason she hasn't pushed for an annulment is because she's holding out hope that you'll at least fulfill your biological function." His voice was flat and emotionless. "Those were her exact words. Your biological function."

Rage flooded through me, hot and sharp. "That's…"

"That's my mother." Lucien moved away from me, putting distance between us. "That's who she is, Aria. Cold, calculating and obsessed with legacy and power and continuing the Blackwood name at any cost."

He walked to his desk, bracing his hands on the surface, his head bowed. "And now she's gotten to you too. Now she's made you part of her schemes, given you some demand…" He looked up at the folder. "What's in there, Aria? What did she make you agree to?"

"I haven't agreed to anything," I said honestly.

"But she wants you to." It wasn't a question. "She always does. She finds your weakness, your pressure point, and she pushes until you break." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "What's your pressure point, Aria? What did she threaten you with?"

You, I thought. She threatened to hurt you.

But I couldn't say it. Couldn't add that burden to everything else he was carrying.

"She just wants to make sure I'm serious," I said instead. "About being your wife, about... about everything."

Lucien straightened slowly, turning to face me fully. His expression was carefully blank, but I could see the pain underneath.

"You're doing it again," he said quietly. "Lying to protect me. Or lying to protect yourself. I don't even know anymore."

"Lucien…"

"Do you know what the worst part is?" He crossed his arms, a defensive gesture I'd never seen from him before. "The worst part is that I want to believe you. Even now, even after everything, even knowing you're lying to my face, I still want to believe that you're different today. That yesterday meant something. That you bringing me lunch and meeting my employees and acting jealous of Jennifer was real."

His voice cracked on the last word, and I saw him fight to control it.

"Don't say that." I moved toward him, but he held up a hand.

"Don't." The word was sharp, final. "Don't come closer, don't touch me, don't look at me with those eyes that make me forget how much you've hurt me."

Tears spilled down my cheeks. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" His grey eyes were chips of ice. "For lying now, or for the last five months of lies? For bringing me lunch today, or for drugging my coffee three weeks ago? For acting like my wife for a few hours, or for spending every other moment trying to escape me?"

Each word was a knife, precisely aimed and devastatingly effective.

"I deserve that," I whispered.

"Yes. You do." He turned back to his desk, his movements mechanical. "Take the folder. Whatever my mother wants from you, whatever scheme she's cooked up, just take it and go. I have work to do."