At that time, in the small, nearly empty clinic, Aurora had said her goodbyes.
"I have to go home," she said as she tidied her bag. "Your wound is stable now, but don't move around too much."
Lucien nodded. "I owe you."
Aurora gave a faint smile—a professional one, without excessive curiosity—then turned and left.
A few seconds passed.
Lucien straightened his back. The weak expression on his face slowly vanished, replaced by a cold, controlled calm. He reached into the pocket of his coat, took out his phone, and dialed a number he knew by heart.
Before the second ring ended, the call connected.
"Find out everything about a woman named Aurora—you know who I mean," he said flatly.
He paused, his gaze fixed on the door through which Aurora had disappeared.
"Family background, job, social circle. Everything."
The voice on the other end agreed without asking a single question.
Lucien ended the call and leaned back against the clinic bed. The pain in his body was still there—sharp enough to be distracting—but his mind had already moved far ahead.
The report appeared on Lucien's tablet near dawn as he was reviewing important files.
Name, educational history, workplace, family.
Lucien read without expression—until his eyes stopped on one line.
Family relation: younger sister of Clara.
Silence.
Then laughter broke out.
Not light laughter.
Not laughter of joy.
Lucien laughed out loud—deep, harsh, echoing through a room that should have been silent. He leaned back in his chair, covering his face with one hand, his shoulders rising and falling as the laughter sounded almost… unhinged.
"Remarkable," he murmured between breaths. "Absolutely remarkable."
Fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.
The woman who had saved him on that rainy night, the woman who had looked at him without fear, without ulterior motives, the woman strong enough to endure.
The younger sister of his own bride-to-be.
Lucien lowered his hand, his eyes gleaming sharply. A smile slowly formed—not one of happiness, but of someone who had just found the final piece of a puzzle far too perfect to be called coincidence.
"So that's how it is," he said softly.
He swiped the screen, opening a family photo. Clara stood elegantly in the center—and on the other side, Aurora, simpler, calmer. Not made for the spotlight, never prepared for a wedding altar.
"No wonder you're different," he whispered, almost with appreciation. "You weren't the chosen one."
Lucien let out a long breath, then laughed again—this time shorter, more controlled.
"I want you," he whispered.
Clara did run away because of Lucien—but Lucien never told her to leave.
He merely made sure she understood what awaited her if she stayed.
Everything began one week before the wedding.
The two of them were having a formal dinner at an exclusive restaurant. Clara sat straight-backed in an expensive dress, her smile flawless, her eyes never truly settling on Lucien.
"I've prepared a new prenuptial agreement," Lucien said casually, as if discussing dessert.
Clara raised an eyebrow. "New?"
"More detailed," he replied. "I want everything clear from the start."
He slid the tablet toward her.
Clara read it. At first calm—then her brows furrowed.
"No personal career?" she asked.
"No conflicts of interest," Lucien corrected. "You'll be the face of Severin. I need stability."
"And my freedom?" Clara looked at him sharply.
Lucien smiled faintly. "You'll have everything—as long as it aligns with me."
Clara let out a small laugh, trying to brush off her discomfort. "You talk as if I'm an asset."
"Because in this marriage," Lucien answered honestly, "we are assets to each other."
That night, Clara went home with a tight chest.
***
In the days that followed, Lucien became increasingly… transparent. He allowed Clara to see her future exactly as it was.
And the most crushing moment—
One afternoon, Clara said, "I want to continue my project in Paris after the wedding."
Lucien looked at her, then shook his head slowly. "No."
"Just six months."
"No," he repeated. "A Severin wife does not live separately."
His tone was calm. Not angry, not threatening—but that was precisely what made Clara tremble.
"So I have to choose," Clara said softly.
Lucien leaned forward slightly. "I never forced you from the beginning."
And that was true.
He never promised Clara false love.
He merely showed her reality—that in Lucien Severin's world, a woman like Clara would lose herself.
***
Three days before the wedding, Clara stood before Lucien with reddened eyes.
"I can't do this," she said.
Lucien looked at her for a long moment. Not surprised. Not disappointed.
"I know," he replied calmly.
Clara swallowed. "You… won't stop me?"
Lucien shook his head. "Go."
That was the only kindness he gave her. Clara left that night—without drama, without a trace. Lucien stood alone in his study afterward, staring out at the city as he raised his phone.
"Make sure Aurora becomes the bride," he told his subordinate.
He ended the call and smiled faintly.
***
Back in the present, the penthouse door opened precisely at two in the morning.
Lucien's footsteps were nearly soundless as he entered. His expression was calm—the face of a man who had just completed a series of obligations, not his own wedding celebration.
The lights turned on automatically, dim and warm.
The penthouse was silent.
Lucien paused in the living room, his gaze sweeping the space. No signs of disturbance. No trace of panic. Aurora had adapted more quickly than he'd expected.
He placed his keys and phone on the marble table, then walked further inside.
Lucien stopped before the large window.
The master bedroom lights were off. But from the gap beneath the guest room door at the end of the hallway, a faint glow from a bedside lamp spilled out.
The corner of Lucien's lips lifted slightly.
A smart choice, he thought. Not rushing to claim a space that wasn't hers.
He walked quietly down the hallway, stopping right in front of the guest room door.
Inside, Aurora was likely already asleep—or pretending to be.
Lucien turned away.
He entered the master bedroom and closed the door behind him. The room was spacious, cold, and a perfect reflection of himself.
Lucien loosened the buttons of his shirt, standing before the mirror.
Wife.
The word felt foreign—but not unpleasant. He glanced toward the hallway, toward the room where Aurora was spending her first night.
"Welcome home. Tomorrow, I'll make sure we sleep in the same bed, my beloved," he murmured softly, almost without sound.