Mag-log inThe café smelled different now. Before, it had smelled like coffee. Freshly baked bread. Chocolate syrup. Rain coming through the open door. Sometimes perfume from customers. Sometimes the faint smell of old books because her aunt kept a small shelf beside the window for anyone who wanted something to read while waiting. Now it smelled like smoke. Wet ash. Burned wood. Something that had once been familiar but could never be the same again. Sera stood across the street, staring at the remains. She hadn't told Lucien she was coming. She hadn't told anyone. She simply woke up before sunrise, dressed quietly, and left. She needed to see it. Maybe because some part of her still hoped that if she looked at the café herself, the previous night would somehow feel less real. It didn't. The front windows were blackened. The sign above the entrance was partially destroyed. One side of the roof had collapsed. The little plant that had stubbornly survived everything was gone
The first thing Sera noticed the next morning was the smell of coffee.Not the expensive kind Lucien occasionally brought home from one of the cafés near the estate.Not the carefully prepared coffee Mira insisted was the proper way to start a morning.The smell was simply coffee.Warm.Familiar.Comforting.Sera stood barefoot in the kitchen, staring sleepily at the mug in her hands.“You're staring at it like it personally offended you.”She looked up.Lucien was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest.His hair was still slightly messy from sleep.Sera narrowed her eyes.“You're awake early.”“So are you.”“I couldn't sleep.”“I know.”She frowned. “How?”“You kept turning.”Sera looked down at her mug. “You were awake?”“Unfortunately.”“Then why didn't you say anything?”“You looked comfortable.”For some reason, that answer made her chest feel warm.She tried to hide the smile that threatened to appear. “You're getting soft.”Lucien raised an eyebrow. “
For the first time in years, Lucien Devereaux had become easy to recognize.Not because of his expensive suits.Not because of the company he owned.Not because of the family name that appeared in newspapers whenever something went wrong in Blackridge.People recognized him because he laughed.It was strange how something so ordinary could become so noticeable.For years, Lucien had walked through the world as though he were passing through it rather than living in it.He worked.He attended meetings.He solved problems.He went home.He slept when he could.And repeated everything the next day.People had grown used to that version of him.The serious one. No. The distant one.The man who rarely stayed at parties longer than necessary and never allowed photographs to catch him smiling.Then Sera arrived.And somehow...The ghost started laughing.Saturday morning began normally.Sera was in the kitchen arguing with Mira about breakfast."That's too much garlic.""It's not.""It is."
Some wounds announced themselves. A bandaged hand. A stitched forehead. A limp after an accident. Others were quieter. They hid behind polite smiles. Perfect posture. Calm voices. Well-tailored suits. Lucien Devereaux had mastered that kind of wound years ago. Most people believed he simply wasn't expressive. That he was naturally serious. Reserved. Difficult to approach. Only a handful of people knew the truth. Lucien hadn't forgotten
There were no gunshots. No encrypted files. No anonymous phone calls. No traitors to chase. For the first time in weeks... Blackridge offered them something almost unfamiliar. An ordinary Saturday morning. Sunlight streamed through the enormous windows of the Devereaux Estate, replacing the endless rain that had dominated the previous days. The gardens sparkled beneath the morning dew. Somewhere outside, the gardeners laughed over something neither Sera nor Lucien could hear. The mansion felt... lighter. Not because their problems had disappeared. Because, for one morning, they chose not to carry them. Sera wandered into the kitchen wearing an oversized cream sweater she had borrowed from Mira after discovering that nearly all of her clothes were still damp from the previous week's rain. Her hair remained loosely tied, with several stubborn strands escaping around her face. She yawned. The scent of freshly baked bread immediately greeted her. Mira looked up from the c
The rain returned on Friday.Not as violently as the storm that had trapped Sera and Lucien inside the library weeks ago.This rain was gentler.Steady.Patient.Almost as though the sky itself had grown tired of anger.From the floor-to-ceiling windows of Devereaux Holdings, Blackridge disappeared beneath a curtain of gray. Employees hurried across the streets with umbrellas. Traffic crawled through the wet roads.Life continued.As if no conspiracy had begun unfolding beneath the city's polished surface.As if someone inside Lucien's organization hadn't already betrayed him. Lucien hadn't left his office since dawn.Stacks of investigation reports covered his conference table.Security logs.Employee records.Access histories.Financial transactions.Nothing fit together.Every lead dissolved into another dead end.Someone was always one step ahead. Someone inside his own company knew exactly how he investigated.His phone vibrated.Claire:"Mr. Devereaux, the board meeting sta







