The sleek black door of the Aston Martin opened with calculated grace.
Lucien Moreau stepped out, the late morning sunlight catching the expensive sheen of his tailored navy-blue suit. He didn't spare Caroline a single glance. Not yet. His stride was slow, confident, and completely disinterested in the chaos unraveling behind him.
Instead, he rounded the back of his car with a quiet sigh, hands in his pockets, surveying the damage.
A scratch. No—a crime against automotive beauty.
He ran a gloved thumb along the marred paint of the bumper. The irritation in his jaw tensed visibly, but the smirk that curled on his lips was dangerously slow.
Finally, he turned to Caroline, his eyes hidden behind tinted shades that made him look like trouble dipped in luxury.
"Tell me," Lucien said smoothly, voice dipped in that signature French accent that made even threats sound seductive, "were you drunk when you decided to rear-end a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car?"
Caroline blinked, her jaw falling open.
Lucien's gaze swept over her—the flawless makeup, the designer mini dress, the mess of hair that still somehow looked expensive. "Or were you just... texting about your latest nail appointment?"
It took her a beat to process.
"I—What? Excuse me?!" she sputtered, blinking like someone slapped her with a Gucci handbag.
Lucien tilted his head toward the scratch. "That's going to cost you. Quite a lot, actually."
Caroline's inner drama queen woke up instantly.
"I am not the one at fault here!" she snapped, tossing her bag onto the hood of her car. "You stopped out of nowhere, in the middle of traffic, might I add—who does that?! Of course I bumped into you! It's basic physics!"
Lucien let out a short laugh. "Basic physics? Darling, please don't pretend to understand science when you were clearly failing the science of braking."
She gasped. Loudly. "Are you kidding me? I could sue you for reckless driving!"
He finally pulled his sunglasses down, revealing ice-blue eyes that shimmered with pure amusement. "And I could sue you for vehicular assault on a man's prized possession. But you don't want that, do you, little heiress?"
Caroline's eyes narrowed. "How do you know I'm an heiress?"
He gestured lazily at her outfit. "It's either heiress, or the daughter of a man who owns too many oil fields."
She crossed her arms. "Well, I'm not letting this go. This is a new Mercedes—my father just bought it for me, and I'm not paying to fix your overpriced toy when it's your fault."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. Something flickered in his eyes—something that hesitated for the first time. He looked at her properly now, really looked.
Something about her face tugged at his memory, though the details escaped him.
But one thing stood out—she was beautiful. In the chaotic, infuriating way hurricanes were beautiful.
And clearly spoiled.
Lucien clicked his tongue. "Fine," he said. "I'll let it go this time. Next time you kiss my bumper, I'll have my lawyers kiss your father's bank account."
Caroline's mouth dropped open. "You're letting it go?! I'm calling the police! You're the one who stopped in the middle of the road like a psycho! You should be arrested!"
Lucien didn't flinch. He simply leaned back against his Aston Martin, arms crossed. "Call them. Maybe they'll give you a ticket for emotional damage. Yours, of course."
Fuming, Caroline grabbed her phone and dialed. "Watch me!"
Lucien didn't blink.
Ten minutes later, the flashing lights of a NYPD cruiser slid up beside them. The officers stepped out, walking over with stern professionalism.
"Ma'am, sir—"
Then their eyes landed on Lucien.
Recognition flared in the officer's eyes. "Mr. Moreau—"
Lucien held up a finger. "Not here," he said coolly, voice low and firm. "Let's take this somewhere more... civilized."
Caroline blinked. "Wait. What? Who the hell are you?"
No one answered.
They were both escorted to the station.
In the cold blue-lit room, Caroline folded her arms as the CCTV footage loaded on a wide screen. She stared at it, already preparing for a dramatic sob story.
Until—
"Oh my god," she muttered.
The footage clearly showed her Benz ramming into Lucien's car—no sudden brake from him, no abrupt stop. Just her, distracted and driving way too fast for the crowded avenue.
A smug silence filled the room.
Lucien didn't even look at her. He was on his phone, bored, probably texting his lawyer already.
"Miss DuPont," the officer said, "you'll be liable for the damage to Mr. Moreau's vehicle. Based on the evaluation, that'll be approximately—"
Caroline didn't hear the number.
She was already spiraling.
Her fingers clenched around her phone. Her father would kill her. This was a new car. And now... now she was going to have to pay for scratching the Batmobile of some insufferable billionaire with a God complex.
She swallowed hard and dialed her father's number.
The phone rang. Once. Twice.
She hung up.
No. She couldn't deal with him right now.
Instead, she did something even more irrational.
She called Anastasia.
"Stassi! . Please, can you ask Dante to—"
"No." Anastasia's voice was firm . "I'm not about to ask that ruthless Montgomery for anything. "
"But you're my best friend! Stassi it's either you or I'm imprisoned!"
"Care not today, I'm really stressed". Anastasia muttered and Caroline sighed .
The call ended.
Caroline was frozen. Alone.
Then the officers—finally—whispered something. Her name. His name.
"Wait, he's Lucien Moreau?" one murmured. "The guy who owns all those clubs downtown? And the—wait—isn't he the renowed elite criminal defense attorney—"
Caroline felt her stomach drop.
Her eyes widened slowly as the realization hit her.
She had just fought with Lucien freaking Moreau.
Of course she had.
And now she was about to lose money and dignity.
She swallowed her pride. Pulled out her black Amex. The one tied to her account.
And she swiped.
Payment confirmed.
Lucien finally looked up. Met her eyes. Didn't smile.
She glared back, equal parts mortified and enraged, before she grabbed her phone, straightened her posture, and stormed out of the station.