Deal

“You’re pathetic, Vivian. Even your voice sounds like it’s been dragged through the mud.”

Lucian’s words hit me like a physical strike. I stood there in the center of that dark, suffocating library, my heart hammering so hard I thought my ribs might snap. The smell of scotch and old leather was overwhelming. I had just delivered my first line—the line that cost me my soul—and his response was pure, unadulterated venom.

“I… I told you, Lucian. I haven’t been well,” I said, forcing that breathy, aristocratic lilt back into my throat. My voice was trembling, but I had to make him think it was guilt, not terror. “I came back because I couldn’t breathe without knowing you were okay.”

“Liar!” he roared, standing up so abruptly his chair hit the floor with a deafening thud. He navigated the shadows with a terrifying, predatory grace, stopping just inches from me. He didn’t have to see me to make me feel small. “You came back because the money in Paris ran out? Or did your new lover realize what a hollow shell you are?”

“Lucian, please—”

“Get out!” He pointed toward the door, his hand shaking with rage. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t want your excuses. Get out of my sight—if only I could have the pleasure of saying that for real! Out!”

I didn’t wait for a second invitation. I bolted. My heels skidded on the hardwood as I scrambled out of the library, the heavy doors slamming shut behind me. I didn’t stop running until I reached the grand hallway, where Emelia was waiting, leaning against a marble pillar with a glass of wine in her hand.

“Well,” she said, her eyes cold as they traced my disheveled appearance. “That went exactly as I expected.”

“He hates her,” I gasped, clutching my chest. “He hates her so much, Emelia. This won’t work.”

“He hates her because he loves her, you fool,” Emelia snapped, pushing off the pillar. “And you’re not going anywhere. The hospital bill is paid. You belong to me now. Get in the car.”

An hour later, I was standing in a penthouse overlooking the city. It wasn’t the mansion, but it was just as cold. There was no ‘Hell Training’—no months of preparation. I only had twenty-four hours before I had to face him again for a full day of ‘reconciliation.’

Emelia slammed a thick, leather-bound book onto the glass coffee table. Beside it, a tablet and a small, crystal bottle of perfume.

“Vivian’s diary. Her scent. Every video she ever posted on social media,” Emelia listed, her voice clinical. “Study them. If you don’t know the name of her first pony or how she likes her gin by sunrise, we’re both finished.”

I picked up the diary. The handwriting was loopy and arrogant. “I’m a voice actress, not a spy. How am I supposed to learn a whole life in a day?”

“You don’t have a choice, Celeste,” Emelia said, stepping into my personal space. She reached out and grabbed a lock of my long, chestnut hair. “And we need to do something about this. You look like a college student. Vivian was a predator.”

“What are you doing?” I asked, flinching.

“Changing the silhouette. Lucian is blind, but he isn’t stupid. He will touch you. He will feel the length of your hair, the shape of your face. If he detects a single inconsistency, he’ll realize he’s being played.”

She pulled a pair of shears from her bag. I watched in the mirror as she hacked away at my hair, the long strands falling to the floor like dead leaves. When she was done, I had a sharp, shoulder-length bob—the exact style Vivian wore in her latest Paris photos.

“Look at the tablet,” Emelia commanded.

I swiped through the videos. Vivian at a gala. Vivian insulting a waiter. Vivian laughing at a joke Lucian made in an old interview. I played the clips over and over, closing my eyes and huming along to her speech patterns.

“Oh, Lucian, don’t be so dramatic,” I mimicked.

“Again,” Emelia said.

“Oh, Lucian, don’t be so dramatic.”

“More breath. Less heart. Vivian didn’t care about his feelings; she cared about her image.”

I spent the night in a fever dream of loopy handwriting and high-pitched laughter. I memorized the way she called him ‘Lu’ when she wanted something. I memorized the scent of her perfume—white lilies and something sharp, like ozone. It made my head ache.

Around 3:00 a.m., I dropped the tablet and looked at Emelia. She was sitting across from me, watching me with an unreadable expression.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my real voice coming back, scratchy and tired. “You clearly hate her. Why bring a fake version of her back to him?”

“Because he’s a billionaire who refuses to sign the merger papers because he’s ‘mourning,’” Emelia said, her voice dripping with contempt. “The Aldridge legacy is bigger than his broken heart. If a fake Vivian is the only thing that makes him functional enough to lead, then that’s what he gets.”

“He’s your son,” I whispered.

“He is the CEO,” she corrected. “Now, back to the diary. What was the name of the florist they used for the engagement party?”

The sun was barely up when the car pulled back into the Aldridge Estate. My skin felt tight from the expensive makeup, and the bobbed hair felt foreign against my neck. I was wearing a silk robe over a slip dress—the kind of thing Vivian would wear to breakfast.

“Remember,” Emelia whispered as we stood outside the library doors again. “Use your voice. It’s your only weapon. If you falter, if you sound like Celeste Harper for even a second, you’re dead. And so is your brother’s funding.”

I pushed the doors open. The room was no longer pitch black; the curtains were drawn back just enough to let in a grey, dismal light. Lucian was sitting at the table, a plate of untouched food in front of him.

“You’re still here,” he said. He didn’t turn around, but I saw his shoulders tense.

“I told you, Lu. I’m not leaving,” I said, injecting that playful, annoying lilt back into my voice. I walked over and sat across from him, my heels clicking purposefully. “And you really need to eat. You look ghastly.”

Lucian let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Ghastly? That’s rich coming from the woman who caused it.”

I reached across the table—a risky move—and placed my hand near his. I didn’t touch him yet. “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. But I’m here now. Let me help you.”

Lucian’s hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. His grip was like iron. He pulled me forward until I was halfway across the table, his clouded eyes searching for a face he couldn’t see.

“Help me?” he hissed. “You want to help me sign the papers, don’t you? That’s why Mother brought you back. She thinks I’m a fool.”

“Emelia didn’t bring me back,” I lied, my heart racing. “I came because I heard about the surgery. The one you’re refusing.”

Lucian’s thumb brushed against the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse. I prayed he couldn’t feel how fast it was beating. He leaned in, sniffing the air.

“Lilies,” he muttered. “You always did smell like a funeral.”

“It’s your favorite,” I chirped, my voice steady despite the sweat trickling down my spine.

He let go of my wrist so suddenly I almost fell back. “Sit down and shut up, Vivian. If you’re going to be here, be quiet. I can’t stand the sound of your voice right now.”

“But that’s why you loved me, remember?” I teased, following the notes in the diary. Vivian always poked at his wounds. “You said my voice was the only thing that could calm the beast.”

Lucian flinched. He stood up, knocking his fork to the floor. “The beast is awake, Vivian. And he’s hungry. Don’t push your luck.”

He walked toward the window, staring out at nothing. I watched him, the guilt gnawing at my insides. He was so lonely. Even in his rage, he was reaching for a ghost.

“I’ll stay,” I said, my voice softer now. “Even if you’re quiet. I’ll just stay in the room.”

“Do whatever you want,” he growled. “You always did anyway.”

I sat there in the silence, watching the man I was supposed to ‘tame.’ Every time he moved, every time he sighed, I felt like a criminal. But then I thought of Noah, waking up in a clean, quiet room with doctors who actually cared.

I wasn’t Celeste Harper anymore. I was a liar, a tamer, and a ghost.

The morning stretched on, a tense, silent battle of wills. I picked up a book and started reading aloud—not because he asked, but because I knew Vivian used to read him the fashion tabloids.

“Stop,” he said after ten minutes.

“Why? Don’t you want to know who wore what at the Met?”

“Your voice,” he said, his back still turned to me. “It sounds… different.”

My blood ran cold. I gripped the book until the pages crinkled. “Different? How?”

“Vibrant. Less… bored,” he mused. He finally turned his head toward me. “Did the air in Paris actually give you a soul, or are you just trying harder to lie to me?”

“Maybe I just realized what I lost, Lucian,” I said, my voice trembling for real this time.