The office smelled of smoke and regret.
Lucien stood at the window, a glass of scotch in his hand, untouched. His knuckles were bruised—he'd taken it out on the punching bag downstairs, not because she ran, but because a part of him had expected her to.
Camila Reyes.
She wasn't like the others.
She didn't chase diamonds or his last name.
She didn't kneel.
Lucien didn't know whether to admire her or break her for it.
Gwen had slipped into the room earlier, uninvited. She always did that—showed up when he was at his lowest, offering her body like it meant anything. He'd dismissed her without a word.
Because tonight, his mind wasn't on lust.
It was on that look in Camila's eyes.
Fear.
Defiance.
A flicker of betrayal.
She was going to leave me.
And she would've succeeded, too, if not for his paranoia. He had eyes everywhere. He always did. But with Camila, it wasn't about control—it was about certainty. Certainty that she was still there, still breathing under his roof. Still his.
He downed the scotch.
Memories crept in, uninvited.
A younger Lucien, kneeling beside his mother's lifeless body, blood soaking his clothes.
His father, cold and cruel, telling him, "Love is a weakness. The moment you feel it, kill it."
Lucien hadn't cried that day.
Not when he took his first life.
Not when he inherited the empire.
Not even when Gwen told him she was pregnant, and then conveniently "lost" the child when she realized he wouldn't marry her.
But Camila…
Camila made him feel something dangerously close to guilt.
Why did you try to run?
His phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Lucian, the guard captain.
> "She hasn't left her room since. She's not eating."
Lucien stared at the screen.
Then locked it.
She'd break eventually, he told himself. They always did. The only difference was—he wasn't sure if he wanted to break her.
Or worship her fire until it consumed them both.
The sound of the door clicking shut echoed louder than it should have. Camila stood frozen, staring at the smooth, polished wood as if it would change its mind and open again.
It didn't.
She tried the handle anyway. Locked. Of course it was.
A breath escaped her lips—shaky, frustrated. She was tired of feeling like a pawn in a game she didn't understand. First her uncle's betrayal, then Lucien's looming presence, now this—being locked in a room like a prisoner with silk sheets and marble floors.
Her hands clenched at her sides.
This wasn't just about being taken. It was the way Lucien had looked at her—like she was his. Like he already owned her soul.
She hated how that look had made her feel.
Camila turned away from the door and crossed the room, pacing like a caged animal. Every step fed the storm growing in her chest. She didn't belong here. She didn't want his protection. And she definitely didn't want his twisted form of attention.
But her skin still remembered the heat of his hand on her jaw.
She sank into the edge of the bed, wrapping her arms around herself. Her mind kept replaying his words. "You belong to me now."
Like hell she did.
And yet…
There was something in his voice. In his eyes. A darkness that wasn't just cruel—it was deep, ancient, wounded. Lucien Valentini was a man who had never been denied, not once in his life. And now she was the one thing he couldn't control.
Not fully.
Not yet.
A soft knock broke her thoughts.
She jumped to her feet. Her pulse kicked up, unsure if she should feel hope or fear.
But the door didn't open. No one spoke. Just silence.
Then a faint sound—paper sliding under the door.
Camila hesitated before stepping forward, eyes narrowing.
A single note. Folded. Anonymous.
She bent down and picked it up, slowly unfolding it.
"Be careful who you defy. Not everyone in this house will protect you."
Her heart skipped.
She stared at the words, her fingers trembling slightly.
The ink was fresh.
So someone had been right outside. Listening. Watching.
She didn't know if it was a warning or a threat.
But one thing was clear—Lucien wasn't the only one in this house with power.
And she was far from safe.
She was fire.
The kind that didn't just burn—you inhaled her smoke and felt it claw your lungs from the inside out.
Lucien leaned back in the armchair, the leather creaking beneath him as his fingers closed around the glass of scotch. The surveillance footage flickered on the screen in front of him. She was there—Camila. Pacing in the guest room, barefoot, her fingers tugging at the hem of her borrowed shirt.
She was pissed. And beautiful.
He smirked.
She thought the note came from him.
It didn't.
Lucien's smile faded as he replayed the footage of her reading the message. He had ordered no such thing. No threats. No subtle warnings. He hadn't even told his men to approach her since the car ride. And yet… the paper had his seal. The words were veiled just enough to confuse, just sharp enough to scare.
Someone was testing her. Or testing him.
He didn't like either.
Lucien downed the drink in one smooth motion and stood. A button on his black shirt came undone as he moved—he didn't bother fixing it. He was already in a foul mood. If anyone had gone behind his back…
His phone buzzed.
Nico: You told her about the ball?
Lucien stared at the screen. The ball—a formal event in two days, filled with rival families and dangerous smiles. She wasn't supposed to know yet.
Lucien: No.
A pause.
Nico: Then someone did.
Lucien crushed the message thread and tossed the phone onto the desk. His gaze returned to the screen. Camila now sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor like it had answers.
She didn't understand yet—what kind of world she had been dragged into.
He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled. He didn't want to break her. That wasn't the goal.
But if someone was already trying to shake her... they'd learn the hard way: Camila Reyes belonged to him now.
And Lucien Valentini never shared.