Chapter 9 — She Was Still There
Lucien's POV
The jet landed just after midnight.
The air was colder than usual. Or maybe it was just him.
He stepped out onto the private tarmac and into the waiting black car, the same one that had brought him home from a hundred wars and a thousand meetings.
But this time, something felt different.
She's still in my house.
She didn't run.
That should've pleased him.
It didn't.
It bothered him.
Because Aria Monroe had no reason to stay, no promises binding her except the lie that began this marriage. Yet there she was—still walking his halls, still breathing his air.
And part of him had been waiting to see her the second he crossed the threshold.
---
Moretti Estate — 2:11 AM
The front door opened before his driver could knock.
Clara, the head maid, stood with a quiet bow. "Welcome home, sir."
Lucien nodded once. "Where is she?"
"In the greenhouse, sir. She spends most nights there."
Of course she did.
Isla would've been curled in bed, scrolling on her phone, painting her nails.
But not Aria.
Lucien handed off his coat and walked through the house with practiced silence, each footfall echoing on the marble floors.
When he reached the greenhouse doors, he paused.
Inside, the room glowed with warm lamp light and moonlight pouring through the glass ceiling. The air smelled of basil, rosemary, and something faintly floral.
And there she was.
Kneeling in the corner, trimming a small rose bush. No makeup. Hair tied back. Wearing a soft sweater and loose linen pants. She looked… like she belonged there.
Like she'd been planted, too.
---
Aria's POV
She felt him before she heard him.
That dense, sharp presence in the doorway. The quiet tension of a predator watching his prey.
She didn't turn around.
"Welcome home," she said softly, still pruning the roses.
Lucien's voice came low, like steel cooled by ice.
"You're still here."
"I live here."
"You could've left."
She finally stood, slowly brushing dirt off her hands before turning to him.
"I didn't marry you to run."
Lucien studied her.
She was calmer than he remembered. Centered. Grounded. Like the house had swallowed her whole and now she was part of its foundation.
"You've made yourself comfortable," he said flatly.
"I've made myself useful."
His eyes narrowed. "Doing what, exactly?"
"Learning."
That single word. No emotion. No explanation.
Just a confession in the open.
He hated how steady her voice was.
"I don't like being watched," he said.
"I know," she replied. "That's why I do it quietly."
For a second, the air between them froze.
Lucien stepped closer.
Not enough to touch her.
But enough to make her heart skip a beat.
"You're testing limits," he murmured.
"I'm surviving."
Lucien's jaw clenched. "Careful, Aria. Curiosity is a dangerous habit."
"I'm not curious," she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
"I'm prepared."
That word settled in his chest like a stone in still water.
Prepared for what?
For him?
For what this house would eventually reveal?
He didn't know.
And he hated not knowing.
---
Lucien's POV
He should've turned and walked away.
Should've reminded her of the rules — no questions, no games.
But instead, he lingered.
He let the silence stretch between them. Let his eyes drop—just for a second—to the way her hands flexed, graceful but ready. The same hands that had held a gun with calm precision the night Sofia attacked.
He remembered that.
He remembered everything.
"Get some sleep," he said finally, voice low.
Then he left.
Not because he wanted to.
But because if he stayed any longer…
He wasn't sure he'd keep pretending she didn't matter.