I should've known Lucien wouldn't do anything halfway.
The moment he kissed my hand, the room stopped pretending to ignore us.
Heads turned. Conversations stuttered. The press—positioned discreetly behind velvet ropes—leaned forward with the intensity of vultures smelling blood.
Lucien didn't flinch.
He didn't look at them. He didn't have to.
He looked at me.
"Smile," he murmured under his breath.
I did.
Not for the cameras.
For him.
---
He guided me through the crowd like I was something priceless. Like I wasn't Alina Moreau, junior strategist barely climbing the corporate ladder. No—tonight, I was something else entirely.
An extension of him.
And people noticed.
I caught the sidelong glances. The faux-casual expressions masked in curiosity and calculation. Some faces I recognized—CEOs, influencers, Westbrooke executives in black-tie compliance. Others I didn't. All of them watched like they were trying to solve a riddle.
Or spot a threat.
Lucien's hand stayed at the small of my back. Light. Commanding. Unyielding.
"This isn't just a gala," I whispered. "It's a stage."
"It always is," he replied. "The question is whether you play the part or become the spectacle."
"What part am I playing?"
His lips twitched. "The part they can't predict."
---
The night bled on in glitter and pressure.
Lucien introduced me only once—Miss Moreau, never Alina—but his tone made it clear I wasn't just a passing arm-candy accessory. I was someone to take note of.
People asked questions. About my job. My role at Westbrooke Holdings.
He let them.
I didn't flinch.
But I also didn't miss how he redirected when things got too close. How one glance from him sent subtle shivers through executives three times my age. This wasn't just charm.
This was dominion.
And I was standing in the center of it.
---
"Come with me," Lucien said suddenly, brushing his fingers against my wrist. I followed without hesitation.
He didn't lead me outside. Or upstairs.
He led me down.
Below the hotel's main level. Past velvet ropes and a single security guard who didn't even blink when Lucien passed.
We stopped in front of a tall black door. Soundproofed. Discreet. Untouched by the chaos of the gala above.
He unlocked it with a key he wore inside his jacket.
And then—he opened it.
The room beyond was nothing like the rest of the building.
No chandeliers. No glass. Just black walls, a single leather sofa, and dim golden lighting that flickered like candlelight.
The door clicked shut behind us.
Lucien turned.
"Why are we here?" I asked, my voice hushed.
"Because up there," he said, taking a slow step forward, "I'm everyone's illusion."
Another step.
"But here…"
He reached me. His fingers ghosted along my jaw. His voice dropped like thunder.
"Here, I'm just yours."
---
The kiss was different this time.
Slower. Meaner. A quiet kind of ruin that didn't need speed to be dangerous.
Lucien kissed like he wanted to undo me molecule by molecule. Like this moment—this hidden room—was the only place he could afford to fall apart, and he was going to drag me down with him.
He tasted like champagne and sin.
Like power on a leash.
I pressed closer. Let his hand slide into my hair. Let him tilt my head back and claim me like he'd written the rules and now he was breaking them.
His mouth moved to my neck. My collarbone. He didn't rush.
He lingered.
"This dress," he muttered, breath hot against my skin. "You're never wearing it for anyone else."
I managed a whisper. "It was your choice."
"It was a command."
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His pupils blown wide. Voice low.
"Take it off."
---
I did.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I wanted him to see what he'd done to me.
Who I was becoming under his hands.
---
After, we didn't speak.
He helped me redress with surprising gentleness, every button a reminder of how sharp he could be when he wasn't pretending to be soft.
At the door, he paused. Glanced over his shoulder at me.
"You understand now?" he said.
"Understand what?"
"This isn't a fling."
My throat tightened.
"This is war," Lucien whispered, "and you just chose a side."
---
Later, as the car drove me home, I stared at the bracelet on my wrist again.
The silver glinted in the low light.
I knew what it was now.
Not a gift.
Not a leash.
It was a signature.
And I had just signed the contract in skin.