Chapter Five : The HouseKeeper’s Shadow

​The air in the forest felt ten degrees cooler than the manicured lawns of the garden party. Elena froze, her hand still hovering over the iron latch of the studio door. Mrs. Gable stood beneath the weeping willow, her hands folded neatly over her apron. She had been with Julian since his first marriage; she was the ghost that haunted the hallways, the silent witness to every cold meal and lonely night.

​"I was just checking on the guest, Mrs. Gable," Elena said, her voice sounding thin against the backdrop of the cicadas. "Julian wanted to ensure Lucas wasn't... making a scene."

​"Mr. Lucas has always made scenes, ma'am," Mrs. Gable replied. Her eyes, sharp and milky with age, didn't move from Elena’s neck. "It’s the Vance blood. It’s hot. It’s demanding. But I’ve never seen a migraine leave a mark like that one peeking out from your silk."

​The blood drained from Elena’s face. She instinctively pulled the scarf tighter, the fabric scratching against her sensitive skin. "I don't know what you're implying."

​"I’m not implying anything, Mrs. Vance. I’m an old woman who sees what’s in front of her. I saw the way the bedsheets were tangled this morning before you could straighten them. I saw the mud from a man’s boot on the master rug." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a hiss. "Julian Vance is a man who destroys what he cannot control. If I were you, I’d remember which side of the glass you’re on."

​Before Elena could respond, the studio door swung open. Lucas stood there, silhouetted by the amber glow of the lamps inside. He looked at Mrs. Gable with a cold, terrifying lack of emotion.

​"Is there a problem, Mary?" he asked.

​The housekeeper gave a stiff, shallow nod. "No problem, Mr. Lucas. I was just reminding the Mistress of the time. The Senator is asking for her."

​She turned and began the slow trek back toward the main house, her shadow long and ominous on the grass. Elena felt like she was watching a fuse burn toward a mountain of dynamite.

​"She knows," Elena whispered, stepping into the studio as Lucas pulled her inside and slammed the door.

​"Let her know," Lucas growled. He didn't seem afraid; he seemed energized by the danger. He grabbed Elena by the waist, lifting her off her feet and setting her down on the edge of a high wooden table covered in sketches. "She won't say a word. She’s terrified of my father, and she knows if she speaks, I’ll burn this whole place down with everyone in it."

​"You're insane," Elena gasped, but her hands were already finding the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the dark hair she had dreamed about all morning.

​"I’m obsessed," he corrected.

​The studio was a world away from the polite tinkling of champagne glasses outside. It smelled of turpentine, expensive tobacco, and the raw, salt-scent of skin. Lucas didn't waste time with words. He reached for the high neck of her floral dress, his fingers deft as he unfastened the buttons.

​"Lucas, the party... they’ll wonder where I am."

​"Let them wonder," he muttered, his mouth finding the dip of her collarbone, trailing fire over the bruise he had left. "Let them imagine what you're doing. But only I get to know."

​He pushed the dress off her shoulders, the silk pooling around her waist. In the light of the studio, Elena felt completely exposed not just physically, but spiritually. Lucas looked at her not as a trophy, but as a masterpiece he was still finishing. His hands, stained with charcoal and blue paint, left smudges on her pale skin marks of his ownership that felt more real than the diamond ring on her finger.

​He lifted her higher on the table, his body pressing between her legs. The contact was electric. Elena’s head fell back, a soft, broken moan escaping her as his mouth moved lower. He was thorough, his tongue tracing patterns on her skin that made her heart stutter.

​"Tell me you want this," he whispered against her stomach, his breath hot through the lace of her undergarments. "Tell me you want me more than you want his money, his name, and this glass cage."

​"I want you," she sobbed, her pride finally breaking. "I want you, Lucas."

​The encounter was frantic and desperate, fueled by the knowledge that a hundred people were only a few hundred yards away. Every sound outside a laugh, a distant shout made the adrenaline spike, making the pleasure sharper, almost painful. Lucas was a force of nature, his movements powerful and unyielding. He didn't treat her with the fragile care Julian did; he took what he wanted, and in doing so, he gave Elena the one thing she had been starving for: the feeling of being truly desired.

​As they reached the peak of their shared fever, Elena clutched his shoulders, her nails drawing thin red lines down his back. She felt alive, every nerve ending screaming in the quiet of the studio.

​Afterward, they lay together on a pile of drop cloths and old blankets in the corner. Lucas held her, his heart beating a steady, heavy rhythm against her ear.

​"We have to be careful," she whispered, smoothing his hair.

​"We’re past careful, Elena. We’re in the middle of a war now."

​They dressed in a hurry, Elena using a wet rag to wipe the charcoal smudges from her skin. She reapplied her lipstick and adjusted the scarf, her reflection in the studio window looking like a stranger.

​"Go back first," Lucas said, lighting a cigarette. "I’ll come back in ten minutes with some story about looking for a lost cufflink."

​Elena stepped out into the evening air. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and gold. She walked back toward the garden, her legs feeling heavy, her body still humming with the memory of him.

​She joined the crowd just as Julian was finishing a toast. He looked at her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in her flushed face and slightly disheveled hair.

​"There you are," he said, stepping toward her. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "You were gone a long time, Elena. The Senator was quite disappointed."

​"I... I had to check on the catering," she lied, her heart starting to race again.

​Julian’s gaze moved down to her neck. He reached out, his fingers brushing the silk scarf. "You're sweating, darling. It’s a warm night. Why don't you take this scarf off? You look like you're choking."

​"No, I'm fine, Julian. Really."

​"Nonsense." Before she could move, Julian’s hand gripped the knot of the scarf. "You’re among friends. There’s no need for such formality."

​He pulled.

​The scarf fell away, fluttering to the grass like a dead bird.

​The silence that followed was deafening. The bruise was there, dark and unmistakable against her pale skin. Julian stared at it, his expression shifting from confusion to a cold, predatory realization. Behind him, Elena saw Lucas emerging from the woods, stopping dead as he saw the scene unfolding.

​The Senator and a dozen guests were watching. Julian didn't yell. He didn't make a scene. He simply leaned in, his voice a whisper that was colder than death.

​"That’s a very specific kind of injury, Elena. I didn't know the caterers were so... aggressive."

​The cliffhanger? Julian didn't look at Elena. He looked past her, his eyes locking onto Lucas with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over a contact.

​"Stay exactly where you are," Julian commanded, his voice echoing across the lawn. "Security, I need you at the rose garden. Now."

​