PART TWO
I couldn't breathe. My hands shook as I sank into the chair, the faint scent of her lingering in the hallway already bringing me nausea. Kate—my daughter, my sweet, careful, obedient Kate—had done this. Drugs. Not once, not experimental. She knew. She knew the chaos it had brought her father, and I had thought—had trusted—that my own hands had shielded her from that.
And yet here I was, trembling and sick with fear, imagining her lost somewhere in that same darkness.
How had I failed so completely? She had always confided in me. Promises had been made. "I won't, Mother. I won't ever." Those words, ringing in my memory, mocked me now. I had broken down crying because I had failed as a mother, as the one person meant to guide her.
I had to confront her. I needed answers. I needed to know if she was still there—my girl. My child. Or if she had disappeared behind some haze I couldn't reach.
The moment she stepped in, I sensed it. The shift in her posture—the tightness of her shoulders, the way her eyes darted anywhere but mine. Something was off, deeper than mischief or defiance. My heart clenched.
"Katie," I said, voice barely steady. "We need to talk."
Her jaw tightened. "About what?" she asked, a note of steel creeping into her voice.
I wanted to grab her, to shake her gently and make her admit it, but something in her gaze froze me. "Don't lie to me," I said, trembling. "Don't you dare lie to me, not now, not after everything we promised each other!"
She stiffened further, crossing her arms. "I'm not lying!" she snapped, voice louder, defensive. Her hands shook slightly as if the act of standing and speaking was exhausting her.
My chest tightened. She had always confided in me. And now… now she was shutting me out. "Kate… I know," I said softly, trying to temper the fury and let the fear speak. "I know what's been going on."
Her eyes widened, and she took a step back, hands raised slightly in a protective gesture. "You don't know anything!" she said. Her voice wavered, almost breaking, but she swallowed it back. "You don't understand. You couldn't understand."
A stab of guilt pierced me. Could I have seen it? Should I have seen it? The signs… the tired mornings, the long nights alone in her room, the quiet sadness I had dismissed as normal teenage moods. I had failed her. I had missed her pain.
"I'm fine!" she shouted, almost breaking. Then, quieter, trembling: "I didn't want you to see me like this… weak. Broken. I didn't want anyone to—"
I closed my eyes, holding back tears of guilt. "Kate, oh my God… you don't have to carry this alone."
"I do!" she barked, spinning away. "I've always had to!" Her voice cracked, but the anger stayed—defensive, protective. "You weren't paying attention! You never noticed! You think you know me, but you don't!"
Every word hit me like a blow. She was right. I had been blind to her despair. How could I have missed it? The long nights she spent staring at the ceiling, the quiet withdrawal from friends, the sudden irritability… it all pointed here. To her depression. And I had been oblivious.
"I—I failed you," I whispered, shaking. "I should have seen it. I should have been there. All those times… I—"
She laughed, sharp and bitter, not a real laugh but the sound of someone trying to armor themselves. "You think saying that now fixes anything?"
"No," I admitted, trembling. "It doesn't. But I can try. I will try."
"You can't," she said firmly, backing up, hands shaking as if holding herself together. "You don't know how it feels to hate yourself from the inside out every single day. You don't know what it's like to keep smiling just to make everyone else feel okay while your own head screams."
"You can't," she said firmly, backing up, hands shaking as if holding herself together. "You don't know how it feels to hate yourself from the inside out every single day. You don't know what it's like to keep smiling just to make everyone else feel okay while your own head screams."
I reached for her, hesitated, then stopped. Fear, guilt, and helplessness collided in my chest. "I—I want to understand," I whispered. "Tell me. I can handle it."
Her lips pressed tight, jaw set. Her voice was low, almost a hiss: "You can't. Not fully. You'll just try to fix me. And it won't work. I don't want you crying over me. I don't want… I don't want your disappointment."
I swallowed hard. "I'm not disappointed. I'm scared. And I'm angry, yes… but mostly scared."
She turned sharply, storming up the hallway, voice cracking. "Then be scared! Be furious! But don't look at me like I'm the enemy!"
...
PART ONE
Imagining being alone with Lucian made my chest tighten. Where had he gone? I hadn't seen him since our dance, hadn't known whether to feel relief or dread.
I hugged my mother one more time. Her lips pressed gently to my cheek, a quiet blessing. Clara stepped forward next, arms warm, hands brushing my face in a sisterly gesture, and whispered something only I could hear, her voice full of laughter and encouragement. Mrs. Cara, ever faithful, had told me once more how much she loved me, her words a soft anchor. I saved the last hug for my father. He held me tightly, a silence between us that said more than words ever could.
And then—my eyes caught him. Lucian.
His jacket was off now, revealing a sharply tailored black shirt beneath, sleeves rolled up slightly at the wrists. He was leaning casually against the carriage, yet his gaze was fixed entirely on me. A slow, deliberate stare that made my heart stumble. And then, just as suddenly, he turned, a hint of a smirk on his lips, and walked away with Damien, leaving a trail of unease that followed me like a shadow.
I took a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs. For a moment, it felt like the world had paused, leaving only the soft hum of life, the faint clink of carriage harnesses, and the distant echoes of the wedding laughter.
Father nudged me lightly, a gentle push, reminding me it was time to leave. My heels clicked against the polished stones as we stepped outside.
The night greeted me like a dream. Stars scattered across the velvet sky, each one trembling softly as if caught between two worlds. A crescent moon hung low, casting a silver glow over the garden, highlighting the delicate swaying of white blossoms in the evening breeze. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and wood smoke from distant lanterns. Every rustle of leaves, every distant laugh from lingering guests, seemed magnified in the quiet grandeur of the night.
Lucian was waiting at the carriage, leaning slightly against it, watching me. I gripped the folds of my gown tightly, trying not to let him see the flush creeping up my neck. My mind refused to think clearly—his presence made every nerve in my body tingle, every instinct scream at me to run, to resist, to brace myself.
I climbed into the carriage first, my gown whispering against the cushions, and he followed smoothly, sliding in beside me. The space between us was small, almost unbearably so, and I felt the faint heat of him just a whisper away. I refused to look at him directly, instead staring out at the blur of the garden, the stars, the night.
The carriage jolted forward, wheels clicking over the stones, and the world outside became streaks of silver and gold. The night was alive—the soft hum of insects, the rustle of leaves, the distant laughter from the guests lingering behind—all of it wrapped around me.
And through it all, Lucian's presence was constant, silent, but heavy. My heart hammered. I was frightened of being alone with him, but more than that, I was frightened of how much I felt in his presence.
I hugged my bouquet closer to my chest, my fingers gripping it so tightly the petals bent under my hold. Lucian glanced at me once, his eyes dark and unreadable, and a slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. I refused to meet his gaze, though my pulse betrayed me.
...
"We would need rules, Anne," he said, leaning back against the carriage seat, rubbing a hand over his face as though something ached beneath his skin.
For a moment I wondered if he was in pain.
As if hearing the thought, he lifted his head and looked directly at me. "What are your rules, Anne?" he asked quietly. "Because I have mine."
"Rules?" I repeated, the word catching awkwardly in my throat.
"Yes. Rules." His voice was calm, deliberate. "What you accept. What you don't. I'm human, Anne. I know you hate this—just as much as I do—but I want you to know your feelings are always taken into consideration."
The carriage rocked gently beneath us, the night humming outside.
"So," he said again, softer now. "What are your rules?"
The words burst out of me before I could temper them. "You won't touch me. Ever."
I waited for the smirk. The mockery. The smug satisfaction.
It never came.
Instead, he sat up straight and looked at me with infuriating seriousness. "Anne," he said evenly, "I've touched you before. You'll have to be specific."
Heat rushed to my face. "You won't touch me affectionately," I said quickly.
He tilted his head. "You're an adult," he replied. "Speak your mind."
"I—" My voice failed me. "I… I—"
Before I could finish, his hands slid beneath my thigh, firm but controlled, drawing me just close enough that the space between us vanished. He lowered himself slightly, bringing his face to my level, not looming, not forcing—just there.
My breath caught.
He carefully lifted the hem of my dress just enough for the cool night air to brush my ankle. I shivered despite myself.
"Black shoes," he said softly, a faint smile touching his lips. "I expected nothing less. They're beautiful. I told them—only the best."
The words should have meant nothing. And yet my pulse betrayed me.
As he lifted the fabric a fraction higher, my hands moved on instinct, pressing against his chest to push him away—but the moment my palms met him, they forgot their purpose entirely. The steady warmth beneath my fingers, the quiet strength there, unraveled my resolve.
He stopped.
Just looked at me.
As though waiting.
For fear. For anger. For something
But all he found was my gaze locked on his.
In my dreams, his eyes had always been black. Dark.
Unreadable.
But now, under the glow of the moon slipping through the carriage window, they were not black at all.
They were grey.
No, not just grey—grey touched faintly with blue, like a child hand had brushed color across stone. Carelessly. Beautiful.
"Anne," he said, voice low, deliberate, "right now… I'm touching you."
I froze. My lips trembled as his fingers brushed softly against them, a ghost of sensation that made my heart hammer, part fear, part unwilling fascination.
Then he shifted back, creating just enough space for me to feel small, exposed, and entirely at his mercy. I could feel the control in his movements, subtle, precise—he knew exactly what he was doing.
No. No, I reminded myself
I met his gaze, steadying my voice even as my pulse raced.
"No," I said, each word deliberate, each syllable carrying all the defiance and fear bottled inside me. "No sexual advances shall be made. You will not touch me secretly. Publicly, we will not… you will not—" My throat tightened. "We will not have sex. You will not kiss me. You will not see my bare body. We will not cuddle.". I would love to get to know you... Better.
I swallowed hard, struggling to keep my voice from breaking. Every word felt like a lifeline, like setting boundaries in a storm that threatened to pull me under.
"I demand respect," I continued, louder this time, heat burning in my chest. "To be treated well. I demand time with my family. I demand to see my friends, Lady Clara. I demand your subordinates refer to me as Lady Anne. You will never—ever—raise a hand to me."
The words echoed in the carriage, his features numb but more subtle.
He leaned back just slightly, letting me regain space, and I could see his jaw tighten as if he were controlling himself, measuring his reaction. "You speak clearly," he said quietly, voice smooth and even. "I like that. I respect that."
I blinked, startled. Respect? For me? Not possession, not power, not teasing? Respect.
"You should know," he continued, eyes never leaving mine, "I am capable of ignoring rules. Of testing boundaries. But I will honor yours… for now."
My breath hitched.
He leaned back again, eyes closed, and I could swear this time he was in pain. My chest tightened, part fear, part concern.
"I require," he said slowly, voice low and measured, "that you do not meddle in my affairs."
Only one rule? I thought, my heart giving a tiny, cautious leap. I had expected a long list—a dozen dos and don'ts—but this… this was sharp, singular, deliberate.
I swallowed, unsure if I should speak, but the words slipped out almost against my will. "Are you… in pain?" I asked softly, my voice trembling slightly.
"You just broke my rule, Anne," he said, eyes still closed, tone colder this time, clipped. "Do not meddle in my business."
...
The carriage came to a halt.
For a moment, I thought we had arrived at the boardroom—I had always assumed that place was his home. But I was wrong. What stood before me now was something else entirely. Magnificent didn't begin to cover it. The word felt small, inadequate, almost insulting to the sheer presence of the place.
Stone columns rose like silent sentinels, carved with such precision they looked alive under the lantern glow. Light spilled from tall windows, warm and deliberate, reflecting off polished marble and gold-trimmed ironwork. Everything about it spoke of power that did not beg to be noticed—it simply existed.
Lucian wasn't a duke. He wasn't royal. By title alone, he was nothing extraordinary. A commoner.
And yet—he possessed more wealth than dukes, more influence than crowned heads. He commanded loyalty from men who bowed to no one. He held connections that stretched across borders, across countries, across things I suspected even kings pretended not to see.
How the hell did he avoid scrutiny?
Just as my thoughts began to spiral, I caught myself. I straightened my back, lifting my chin slightly. I was the daughter of a duke. I had seen exclusivity, refinement, power dressed in silk and ceremony. I would not let him think otherwise. I would not let him think I was overwhelmed.
"You should quit staring," Lucian said coolly, not even looking at me. "It makes you look cheap."
Cheap?
I turned to him slowly, disbelief flashing through me
"Cheap?" I echoed. "You call admiration cheap?"
He finally looked at me then, one brow lifting ever so slightly, as though amused—or testing me.
"If you walk into a field of lilies," I continued, my voice steady but edged, "and you pick one up simply to admire it, does that make you cheap? Or does it mean you've come from the desert and finally recognize beauty when you see it?"
I leaned back slightly, meeting his gaze without flinching.
"Admiring, my lord," I said mockingly, deliberately emphasizing the title, "is simply appreciation."
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. Charged.
For a split second, I wondered if I had gone too far.
Yes.
Lucian's gaze hardened—not angry, not amused. Cold. Assessing. Like a blade deciding where to cut.
"You do," he said calmly, stepping closer, his voice low enough to bruise, "have a very sharp tongue."
I didn't respond. I didn't dare.
Lucian took a step closer.
And my heel caught on the uneven stone beneath the carriage steps.
I stumbled.
Just barely.
But it was enough.
My breath hitched as I steadied myself, pride flaring hot in my chest. He didn't reach for me. Didn't offer help. He only watched, eyes sharp, unreadable—having noticed everything.
"And the unfortunate habit," he continued, eyes locking onto mine, "of believing it makes you intelligent."
The words landed harder than I expected. Not shouted. Not cruel in tone. Just precise. Deliberate. Like he had chosen them carefully to hurt.
"Wit," he added, tilting his head slightly, "is not the same as wisdom, Anne. Don't confuse confidence with depth."
My fingers curled at my sides. I could feel the heat rising in my chest, humiliation mixing with anger, pride scrambling to stay upright.
He turned without waiting for me, long strides eating up the stone path as he headed toward the mansion. Castle—no, that word felt too theatrical, yet the structure before us deserved nothing smaller. It rose in pale stone and shadow, tall windows glowing softly like restrained stars, iron lanterns breathing gold into the night. The doors stood open as though they had been expecting us for years.
I followed, my steps lighter than my thoughts.
Halfway up the steps, Lucian stopped.
Damien emerged from the side corridor, jacket loosened, his expression unreadable until his eyes flicked briefly to me—assessing, cautious. They exchanged words in low voices, the kind meant not to travel. Lucian's jaw tightened. Damien shook his head once, slow and deliberate, then leaned closer and muttered something under his breath.
I tried to read his lips.
I'll handle it.
Lucian's shoulders stiffened at that. For a moment, it looked like he might argue, but instead he exhaled through his nose and gave a single nod. Damien stepped back, already retreating into the shadows, duty clinging to him like a second coat.
Lucian turned to me.
"Inside," he said, not unkindly, not gently either. Just final.