Signed To Lucien Vale

Leyla’s Pov Alora didn’t let me finish. The moment I mentioned Lucien Vale, she went deathly pale. She grips the bedsheets so hard her knuckles turns white, her whole body trembling as if she is bracing for a physical blow. “You can’t do this,” she rasps. “I won’t let you.” “You don’t understand, Lora,” I say, my voice cracking. “George is just twenty. He’s still a kid who forgets to lock the front door and leaves his sketches all over the kitchen floor. He won’t survive a week in a place like Blackwood. Friday is his hearing, and if I don't give Lucien what he wants, George doesn't come home. Ever.” The room went deathly quiet. I can hear the frantic ticking of the clock on the bedside table, sounding like a countdown. “Are you saying this because you actually think he's guilty?” I snap, the heat of desperation rising in my chest. “That our brother, the boy who still cries over dead birds, actually killed someone?” She looks up quickly, her eyes burning. “What? No. Never.

Alora's Pov Lucien didn’t sit. He circles his desk like a shark deciding if I was worth the bite. Seeing my name, Alora, on that folder made my stomach do a backflip. “How long,” he repeats, “were you planning to play dress-up as your sister?” “I wasn’t pretending,” I snap, my voice betraying me with a tiny quiver. “Leyla was busy. I filled in.” "She was invited. You weren't.” He drifts to the window, looking over the city with his hands in his pockets. “But you didn’t correct the secretary. You didn't even blink when I caught you. My pulse kicks hard as he turns back to me. “When I saw George’s file, and recognized the family which he came from, I stopped wondering if you’d appear.” I have nothing to say. Everything I had planned in my head evaporates. He always had this way of crumbling me. His gaze settles on me. “I started to wonder how long you’d last before you came.” The room suddenly feels like it's shrinking. "Why are you here, Lo?" Hearing that

Lucien's PovI stare at my hand as the glass finishes it's work, one clean slice across my palm. A bead of blood swells, grows heavy, then drops, staining the carpet.A mess. I hate messes.I look at the two women in front of me. Two identical shades of blood-red silk. It took weeks to find that fabric. The exact shade. Because it reminded me of that night, nine years ago when I had taken her to that dance. Now, seeing it on Leyla, feels like someone had taken that memory and smeared it with ink. She’s smirking, as if she’d actually accomplished something. It's just an annoying, petty little play. She really thought a grainy tabloid photo and a matching outfit gave her power over me. She has no idea how many scandals twice this size I’ve before my morning coffee cooled."A surprise?" I purr, enjoying the slight flinch in her shoulders. "You think this is a game, Leyla?"Glass crunches under my shoes as I step forward. I pass her without a glance and stop in front of Alora.She’s pale

Alora's Pov Lucien’s hand is a dead weight on my waist as he grips me. The second he spots a high-ranking senator across the room, he disposes me."Marcel," Lucien says, his voice smooth as the scotch he's been sipping. "Keep my fiancée entertained for a moment, will you? I’d hate for her to look bored in a room full of people who adore her."Without waiting for an answer, he takes my hand and drops it into Marcel’s. A casual move that feels like being traded between two different lifetimes. Lucien strolls away, radiating the kind of ego that only comes from owning everything you see.The orchestra shifts into a slow, haunting waltz. Marcel’s grip on my hand is different yet familiar in a way that hurts. It’s the steady warmth of the boy I once trusted with every secret.We both speak at once."Alora...""Marcel, I..."We stop. The silence between us is louder than the violins."You go first," he says, his voice gravelly.I glance toward the door where I last saw Leyla. A bit despera

Alora's PovThe car door opens with a soft, reluctant sigh. I step out, my coat brushing the seat before I tug it back into place. Sunlight spills into the cafe like a soft filter, all warm and sharp. Dust motes radiates in its beam, like they're suddenly alive. It hits my skin and it's like my chest is lowkey screaming, like it might shatter or dissolve. I scan the cafe.There he is. My hands start to shake. I feel like I'm on the run or something, even though Lucien's security detail is parked in the black SUV across the street, eyes on us like they're glued there. I walk over and slide into the booth across from him, the red vinyl sticking to my skin."Always stunning," he says, his eyes tracing the hollow of my throat down to my boobs. "Took you long enough.""We're here to talk," I whisper, the words tumbling out of me. "Lucien. What..."Marcel doesn't let me finish. He leans in, the scent of his perfume all over us. Instead of taking my hand, he lifts his index finger and pres