LOGINSera woke to the sound of rain.
Soft at first. Almost gentle. It tapped against the windows of the Devereaux estate, filling the room with the kind of quiet noise that made staying in bed feel reasonable. She stared at the ceiling. For a few seconds, she didn't remember where she was. Then she remembered. Lucien sitting beside her bed afterSera woke to the sound of rain. Soft at first. Almost gentle. It tapped against the windows of the Devereaux estate, filling the room with the kind of quiet noise that made staying in bed feel reasonable. She stared at the ceiling. For a few seconds, she didn't remember where she was. Then she remembered. Lucien sitting beside her bed after her nightmare. She turned her head toward the nightstand. Her new phone was there. She smiled faintly. She still hadn't gotten used to it. Not the phone itself. The fact that someone had noticed she needed one before she asked. Sera reached for it. There was a mes
The first thing Sera noticed about staying at the Devereaux estate was that nobody asked her when she planned to leave. Not Mira. Not Claire. Not the staff. And certainly not Lucien. After what happened at the café, she had expected questions. Are you sure? How long are you staying? Do you need anything? Instead, everyone seemed to accept her presence as though it had always been part of the house. Her room was prepared. Her clothes were brought over from her apartment. Her favorite tea appeared in the kitchen. Even the little book she had left at the café somehow found its way onto the nightstand. She had no idea who had packed it. She suspected Mira. She also suspected Lucien. But she had no proof. And Lucien, as usual, said nothing. That was becoming a pattern. He never said much. He simply did things. Small things. Things so easy to miss that Sera sometimes wondered if she imagined them. Until she started paying attention. Her phone was the first thing. T
The 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







