Heir Vs Blood

Alora's Pov

The 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 presses it gently to my lips. It’s a soft, familiar shush that sends a jolt through my heart.

"Eat first, Alora," he says quietly. "The world isn't going to stop spinning for a sandwich. Let’s just be human for one hour."

I want to scream that I've been dead since the day the handcuffs clicked on my brother's wrists, but his eyes; calm, patient, and impossibly kind, forces the fight out of me. I sink into the red vinyl booth, letting the weight of it all swallow me.

We eat in a silence that feels like shared language, the kind we'd speak without words, like we did back then.

"You still write?" he asks mid-bite, his gaze dropping to my messy hands.

I nod, wiping off the mayonnaise on my lips.

"Can I read it now, or you still want to keep it locked up?"

I let out a soft laugh. "Well, I'll publish when I figure out my life. Right now, I've got bigger problems."

When we’re done, he takes me to a hidden spot at the back of the café, where a dusty, neon-lit arcade corner sits forgotten.

"Best of three?" he challenges, smirking.

He gestures to an old, rattling air hockey table and for the next thirty minutes, I forget I’m wearing a diamond that costs more than this café. My problems stops circling. We play like kids again, puck flying wild, our laughter breaking through the thick air. For a moment, Marcel isn't Lucien’s man, he’s just mine.

"I’d still beat you blindfolded,” he says as he wins the final round, eyes bright. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

He drives us out of the city, toward the old Evergreen Lake. It’s the place where the summer camp used to be, where we used to sneak out past curfew to hang out. The air's different here, no lilies or scotch just the damp pine, moss, and the cold water that I'm used to.

We drift toward the edge of the pier, the boards groaning softly under our feet.

"Mar,” I say, the excitement slipping out before I can stop it. “Do you remember that tree we used to mark our heights on? Let me see if it’s still there.”

I don't wait. I run toward the old oak, desperate to see if anything from my childhood stayed rooted.

"Careful Alo..."

Too late. The ground is slick with needles, my foot slips and I crash heavily on the ground. The pain I feel, out of this world.

Lucien’s men are there in seconds, shadows blocking the sun. "Are you alright, ma'am?"

"I'm fine," I snap, like it's a reflex though blood's seeping through my jeans.

Marcel’s already kneeling. "Get a med kit if it's available," he barks. "Now!"

They scatter and the pier falls quiet. I can’t hold it in anymore. The nostalgia presses down heavily.

"Are you really with her?" I ask, turning to face him. He looks up as the wind whips my hair across my face, stinging my eyes.

"Is Leyla... are you guys really serious or are you just playing the part Lucien scripted for you?"

Marcel steps to the very edge of the pier, hands in his pockets, staring at the grey, churning water. He doesn't answer. He just watches a hawk circle above the trees.

"Water looks the same," he murmurs. "Still holds a thousand secrets and doesn't plan on giving up a single one."

"Marcel, please," I stand and step closer, my voice cracking. "Why are you really back? Leyla said... she said you’re onto Lucien. She said you’re looking for something. What did she mean?"

He finally turns to me and it's like the playful arcade guy is gone. This Marcel looks like he’s been carrying a mountain on his back. He reaches out, his thumb grazing my cheek like a feather.

"So beautiful! Jealousy suits you, Lune," he whispers. "The years haven't been able to dim you, not even him. Still soft and glowing like a moon."

The compliment burns, sweet yet painful. For a second, I let myself stay there, with his hand still on my cheek and the past close enough to touch. Then he steps back.

"You asked why I’m back," he says, his gaze narrowing as he looks toward the distant tree line where the camp used to stand.

He takes a deep breath, the cold lake air filling his lungs.

"Nine years ago, my father didn't just disappear, Alora. He didn't just 'walk out' on us like the police told the papers." He steps so close I can feel the heat radiating off his chest, his voice dropping to a low, jagged rasp. "Raymond Vale, had him killed."

Everything freezes. The water, wind, even my own heartbeat.

"What?" I breathe. "That's... no way. Your families were close, one would think you guys are actually blood."

"I'm sure of what I'm saying," Marcel snaps, a flash of raw, unfiltered rage crossing his face. "You really don't know the Vales, do you? My father knew too much and also did a lot for them. He got tired and tried to leave quietly they didn't let him."

He chuckles now, a low, bitter sound. "Lucien didn’t inherit the Vale name. He earned it by doing his father's dirty work. The same man who killed his father and framed your brother. I believe you're smart enough to have figured that out by now."

He looks me dead in the eye, unmasked.

"I’m not here to play guest at your wedding, Alora. I’m here to take back the right to my family’s name, and make sure Lucien Vale loses everything."

He reaches for me, fingers lacing through mine, but it’s not the romantic hold from the Gala. It’s a pact.

"I love you," he says, the words slam into me, more like a curse than a confession. "I never stopped. But if you’re standing next to him when I pull the trigger..." his grip tightens. "You’re going to get hit by it."

I stare at him, my thoughts a mess. Minutes ago, he was laughing with me over sandwiches, winning at air hockey like nothing in the world was broken. Now I’m looking at a man who isn’t sure whether he’s planning a murder or calling it justice so cold it might as well be the same.

Lucien wants an heir.

Marcel wants blood.

And somehow, I’m the only one standing in the middle of a battlefield that’s about to explode.