Chapter 5

Elara

I woke to unfamiliar sheets and the golden wash of afternoon light across white walls.

For a terrifying, disoriented second, my mind was a total blank. I couldn't remember where I was, what day it was, or why the air smelled so distinctly of salt air, expensive wool, and intoxicating sandalwood.

Then the haze of sleep began to lift. I was in Lucien’s room. In his bed. Naked under the duvet.

A hot, sudden wave of shame and heat rushed up my neck.

As I sat up, pulling the duvet tightly against my body, a sharp ache bloomed between my legs and the memories of what transpired last night flooded my mind with startling clarity.

The force of Lucien’s hands, the feeling of his mouth on my skin, the relentless rhythm he’d set, the way he kept me on the edge until the only word left in my mouth was his name.

I buried my face in my hands from horror.

What had I done?

Before last night, I had never once viewed Lucien Beaumont as a man in a romantic sense. Sure, he was objectively a good-looking man with an air of authority he wore like a tailored suit. But there was an unspoken sense of incompatibility between us.

Professionally, we were meticulous and perfectly in sync, but Lucien was notoriously exclusive—A cold, unyielding force who existed on a completely different plane of reality.

And last night I’d lost my stupid mind and practically begged him to fuck me like a fool.

I turned toward the other side of the bed. It was empty and cold.

There was no note left on the nightstand. No new texts on my phone. Nothing.

Lucien was just gone.

I glanced at the clock—1:30 p.m.

“Oh my God,” I shrieked.

We were supposed to meet Nikolas Apostolou at ten o'clock sharp. The entire reason for this trip and I’d slept straight through it.

I scrambled out of bed, the cold air hitting my bare skin as I darted out of the room through the shared living area to my own bedroom like a criminal fleeing the scene of a crime.

I showered in five minutes, throwing on a clean set of clothes that hid the faint shadows of Lucien’s fingers and covered places on my body that were marked and tender.

Pulling my wet hair into a quick, tight knot, I packed my laptop and notes. There was no time for makeup, and I desperately hoped my rigid professionalism would cover up the wreck I was inside.

I rushed toward the door, determined to hunt down a taxi to the collector's estate and somehow salvage the situation.

I was halfway across the living area when the latch clicked. The door swung inward and Lucien stepped inside.

He looked impossibly pristine. Dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit, his dark hair combed back. The crisp scent of sea breeze and coffee followed him into the room.

His gaze moved over me, cataloguing my bag, the stiff posture, and the clear, frantic intent to flee.

“Where are you going?” His smooth voice sent heat climbing into my throat.

“To the meeting,” I answered, my voice coming out far more defensive than I intended. “I know I'm late. I don't know how I slept through my alarm, but if I leave now, I can still—"

“I handled it.”

The words cut through my panic like a dull blade. I froze. “What?”

“I handled the meeting,” Lucien repeated, his tone entirely practical. Something flickered across his dark eyes—a flash of something unreadable, gone before I could parse it.

“It’s our deal,” I said, a sudden, sharp prickle of offense burning beneath my ribs, masking the shame. “We were supposed to present it together. You left me sleeping while you went to Apostolou alone?”

“Yes.” Lucien closed the suite door behind him. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and walked toward the table, setting his leather briefcase down. “And you were correct in your initial assessment of him.”

I blinked, thrown entirely off balance. “I was?”

“Family mattered far more to him,” Lucien stated with his usual detachment. “He was reluctant at first. I adjusted the approach using your angle of the client's daughter. It resonated with him. We’ve signed the agreement. The pieces will arrive in Milan by tomorrow.”

I stared at him, my mouth slightly open.

The professional part of my brain registered the success of closing the deal. But the rest of me was still stuck on the fact that he had simply… done it, without me.

And worse still, he looked unfazed about what we did last night.

“Our return flight is scheduled for this evening,” Lucien continued, checking the time on his glittering wristwatch with a subtle flick of his wrist. “You should pack your things. Unless... you would prefer to stay an extra day.”

I blinked again, utterly confused. “Stay?”

“The museum in Thera opened a temporary exhibition on early Cycladic sculpture last month that aligns directly with your research interests. My schedule is open after three o'clock. If you wish to view them, I can arrange private access.”

He spoke steadily, keeping his distance. There was no emotional declaration, no soft comfort. It still carried the crisp, cut-and-dry tone Lucien was famous for, but the lack of an overt order made it clear it was a subtle offering. A professional courtesy to ease the subtle awkwardness in the air.

“That... that sounds…” I swallowed hard, my grip tightening on the strap of my bag. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

A heavy, suffocating silence stretched between us. The awkwardness prickling against my skin. I needed to fix it somehow, retreat into the comfortable, sterile boundaries of employer and employee, and apologize for breaking the unspoken rules of our professional relationship.

“Mr. Beaumont... about last night,” I began, my voice tight. “I shouldn't have said those things to you. It was completely unprofessional, and I deeply apologize—”

“Why are you apologizing?”

The question cut cleanly through my rambling sentence.

Lucien took a single step away from the table, stepping into my space with a deliberate slowness that felt far more intimidating than a shouting match.

“You did nothing wrong.” His voice carried a fraction of a smoother, quieter edge than I had ever heard directed at me, though his posture remained rigid. “We shared an intimate night. It was a mutual act between two consenting adults. You don’t need to apologize for it. I certainly have no intention of apologizing for what I did to you.”

He stopped two feet away from me, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Because I’m not sorry.”

My heart gave a hard thump against my ribs.

“I let you sleep because you’re no good to work if you’re running on empty,” Lucien continued, his gaze coolly searching my face. “It creates room for errors. And I’m more than capable of handling affairs so you don’t become a liability.”

My mouth went dry.

As I looked at his composed, unreadable face, a sickening realization hit me— he was managing me. He was treating last night as a momentary lapse to be contained, handled, and filed away so the business wouldn't suffer.

“I have a conference call in ten minutes.”

He closed the remaining gap between us. His large, warm hand came up, cupping the side of my face, his thumb lightly brushing across my cheekbone like an afterthought.

For a breathless moment, I thought he was going to kiss me. But Lucien simply leaned down and pressed his lips softly to my forehead.

“Get some lunch,” he murmured against my skin, then immediately stepped back.

I stood frozen, watching him turn on his heel and leave the suite again. The ghost of his lips burned against my skin, but as the door clicked shut, a cold, heavy lump formed in my throat.

He would never look at me the same way again.

I’d lost his respect as the brilliant Head of Acquisitions. Now, I was just another woman who threw a desperate, pathetic temper tantrum to get fucked.

It was so clear Lucien was pitying me, accommodating my “weakness” and making sure I wasn’t a liability to him.

I walked slowly back to my room, my heart aching with a sharp, bitter regret. I couldn't stay here, and I sure as hell couldn't spend the rest of my career watching Lucien Beaumont treat me like fragile cargo.

I packed my things quickly and booked a flight. As I waited in the airport, I typed out my resignation letter and mailed it.

It would be a while before Lucien finished his meeting and checked his emails. I would be gone by then.