Lucian's phone buzzed before dawn, the screen lighting up with familiar names. For a moment, the faces of his old crowd flickered in his mind—drunken nights in dim clubs, neon spilling across glass tables, laughter drowned in alcohol. He pressed accept.
"Lucian!! Where the hell've you been, man?" A rough laugh boomed through the speaker, followed by another voice chiming in. "Three days. Not a single call, not even a text. Don't tell me you've gone soft on us."
Lucian leaned against the window, the city just waking beneath the pale morning sky. "I haven't contacted you because I won't be joining anymore."
Silence, then an eruption of laughter.
"You? Please. Don't play saint with us now."
"Come on, Lucian, don't tell me you've suddenly grown a conscience."
"You without a drink in hand—unthinkable."
The jeers stung less than he expected. Once, he would have laughed with them, glass raised, drowning in the same emptiness. Now, their words only sounded hollow.
"I'm serious," he said quietly, but firmly. "Those days are over for me."
For a beat, no one answered. Then one of them snorted. "Fine. Suit yourself. Just don't come crawling back when the world bores you sober."
The line clicked dead.
Lucian set the phone aside. His chest felt lighter, though the faint ache of habit still lingered, whispering of glasses clinking and fire burning down his throat. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself.
He had more pressing battles now.
---
By noon, his desk was littered with files, research notes, and old contracts. Margaret had supplied the documents he requested: profiles of rival companies, past negotiation minutes, and projections for the upcoming partnership talks.
Lucian read, highlighted, cross-checked. His pen tapped against figures as his mind pieced strategies together. The old Lucian—reckless, distracted, more interested in chasing shadows of affection—would have walked into that meeting blind, leaning on his family name. But Lucian, the man who once earned a scholarship through sheer grit, treated this preparation as though the company's survival depended on it.
When Margaret peeked in, she found him scribbling on a whiteboard, arrows connecting markets, profit margins, and risk columns. It startled her enough to linger at the door before quietly excusing herself.
Hours slipped by unnoticed. The sun fell, city lights bloomed. Lucian finally set his pen down, exhaling. His notes were concise, his plan clear. Tomorrow would be the first step in proving he wasn't just a name on the board but a man who could still fight for the Blackwells.
Yet when the building emptied and silence pressed in, he didn't call for the car to take him home. Instead, he walked.
The city air was crisp, alive with late-night chatter, neon, and the hum of traffic. Lucian's shoes carried him aimlessly down familiar streets—places the old Lucian had stumbled through half-conscious, lost in excess. Tonight, every step was deliberate, grounding.
But then it came—like an echo pulled from deep within this body.
A memory.
Seraphina.
She stood in the garden of a gala, laughter spilling like silver bells as champagne glasses clinked around her. The light had caught her hair, softening her into something almost unreal. The old Lucian's heart had ached then—wildly, foolishly.
And now, so did his.
Lucian stopped beneath a glowing streetlamp. His chest tightened with that dull ache—not his own, yet entirely his now. He could feel the weight of longing, of loss, of something beautiful never meant to be his.
For the first time, instead of pushing it away, he let it wash over him. And strangely, he smiled.
A faint, fleeting smile.
The world moved on around him, horns blaring, people rushing past. But for that brief moment, Lucian stood still—caught between a past he hadn't lived and a future he intended to claim.
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