Chapter 4

**Isabella's POV** 

  I had officially moved in with Lucian, and the penthouse felt like a palace built for secrets.

  Three floors, matte-black marble, smoked glass, and windows so tall the city looked like a toy set beneath us. Everything smelled like Lucian: cedar, smoke, and something darker I couldn’t name. There were no family photos, no books with cracked spines, no cozy throw blankets. Just sharp edges and shadows that moved when you weren’t looking.

  My “guest room” was bigger than my old apartment. Walk-in closet already stocked with clothes in my exact size (tags still on, all black, white, or blood-red). Creepy? Yes. Convenient? Also yes.

  Day one of pretending to be Lucian Voss’s girlfriend started with him handing me a black Amex and the words, “Buy something that makes Alexander want to gouge his eyes out.”

  I saluted. “On it, boss.”

  He caught my wrist before I could leave, thumb pressing against my pulse. “Tonight we’re photographed leaving Per Se together. Wear the red dress.”

  The way he said it wasn’t a request.

  I swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  His eyes darkened. “Keep calling me that and we won’t make it to dinner.”

  Heat shot straight between my legs. I yanked my hand back and practically ran for the elevator.

  We spent the day playing the world’s most expensive game of pretend.

  Lunch at a rooftop restaurant where he fed me oysters while paparazzi zoomed in from helicopters.

  A “casual” walk through SoHo where his hand stayed possessively on the small of my back, fingers occasionally slipping just beneath the hem of my crop top.

  Every time I tried to put space between us, he tugged me closer, lips brushing my ear with things like, “Smile, baby. He’s watching the live feed.”

  By the time we got back to the penthouse that night, I was drunk on adrenaline and almost-kisses.

  The elevator doors closed and the air thickened.

  Lucian loosened his tie, eyes never leaving me. “You did good today.”

  I kicked off my heels, rolled my ankles. “I deserve an Oscar and a bottle of tequila.”

  He smirked, stepping closer. “You deserve a lot more than that.”

  My back hit the mirrored wall. He caged me in, one hand planted beside my head, the other tracing the neckline of the red dress like he was memorizing it.

  “Lucian…” My voice came out shaky.

  “Say it again,” he murmured.

  I licked my lips. “We’re supposed to be taking it slow for the cameras.”

  “Fuck the cameras.”

  His mouth was an inch from mine. I could taste the whiskey on his breath. My hands fisted in his shirt, ready to pull him in—

  The elevator dinged. We jumped apart like teenagers.

  He cleared his throat. “I have… work.”

  Then he disappeared down the hall, leaving me panting and furious and way too turned on.

  I needed a distraction.

  Which is how, at 2:17 a.m., I ended up in his private office looking for Advil.

  The room was locked, of course. But the keypad blinked red like it was daring me.

  I tried his birthday, no idea why, muscle memory from Alexander’s old safe.

  0-4-1-7.

  Click.

  The door swung open.

  I told myself I was just looking for painkillers. Totally believable.

  The office was pitch black except for the city lights bleeding through the windows. I found a decanter of scotch, took a swig straight from the bottle, then started opening drawers like a raccoon on a mission.

  Bottom drawer. Locked. Obviously.

  I found a letter opener, jimmied it like I’d seen in movies (shocking how well that works when you’re desperate).

  Inside was a small fireproof safe. Also locked.

  But the key was taped under the drawer like an afterthought.

  My heart started pounding for an entirely different reason.

  I opened the safe.

  Passports (three of them, different names, same photo of Lucian).

  A Glock with the serial number filed off.

  A flash drive labeled “A.K. – DO NOT OPEN.”

  And underneath everything… an old Polaroid.

  I picked it up with trembling fingers.

  Two men on a yacht. Sun-bleached, laughing, arms slung around each other.

  The younger one was unmistakably Lucian except he looked a lot different from his childhood pictures, maybe nineteen, hair longer, smile unguarded.

  The older man beside him, early fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, same jaw, same storm-gray eyes with Lucian…

  Exactly Alexander’s face. Only twenty years older.

  On the back, in faded ink:

  Lucian & Dad – Summer 2012

  The scotch turned to acid in my stomach.

  Dad?

  Alexander was thirty-five .In 2012 he would’ve been…22.

  My brain short-circuited.

  If this man was Lucian’s father… and looked identical to Alexander…my head was spiraling. I began to connect the invisible dots. I was thinking out loud and saying these things.

  eerily footsteps. Soft. Deliberate.

  I didn’t hear him until his shadow swallowed the moonlight.

  I spun around, photo still in my hand. My heart almost jumped out of my chest. 

  Lucian stood in the doorway, barefoot, shirt unbuttoned, eyes blacker than the room.

  My breath sawed in and out. “This man… he looks exactly like Alexander. Why does your father look exactly like—”

  Lucian crossed the room in three silent strides. He plucked the photo from my fingers with clinical precision.

  His face was a blank, beautiful mask.

  “You saw nothing,” he said, voice so cold it burned.

  I laughed, high and panicked. “I saw a ghost, Lucian! Explain—”

  He stepped closer until I had to crane my neck. The air turned arctic.

  “I said,” he repeated, slower, deadlier, “you saw nothing.”

  His fingers brushed my cheek (gentle, terrifying), then gripped my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.

  There was no warmth there now. Just a void.

  “Some doors, Isabella,” he whispered, “once you open them, you don’t get to close them again.”

  He released me so suddenly I stumbled.

  Then he turned, slid the photo back into the safe, locked it, and walked out.

  The door closed with a soft, final click.

  I stood in the dark, heart hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it through the walls.

  Whatever game we were playing just got a thousand times more dangerous.

  And I was no longer sure who the real enemy was.