Ken froze. Of all the faces he expected to see framed by his doorway that morning, Mikael's was the absolute last.
A wave of conflicting sensations washed over him, like a cold tide meeting a warm shore. His first instinct was to slam the door, to physically shut out the ghost of his past, but he didn't. He stood there, watching. He realized with a start that for the first time since he had met Mikael, his heart didn't skip a beat. There was no flutter of hope, no spike of panic. He felt... nothing. Just a hollow, quiet stillness.
"What do you want, Mikael?" Ken asked. His words held no fear, no warmth, and—most importantly—no patience.
Mikael looked as if he'd been struck. The sound of his name coming from Ken's lips was stripped of the affection that used to define it. He had forgotten how his name sounded without the soft prefix of 'Bae.'
"I... I just," Mikael stammered, his eyes darting to the floor. "I came to say I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that to you."
"Done what? Broken my heart or left me in the rain?" Ken replied, his voice as cold as the water that had soaked him that night.
Mikael winced. He had expected anger, perhaps a fight, but this icy indifference was far more devastating. "Both," he whispered. "I shouldn't have ended it that way. Leaving you in the rain... it was cruel. It was heartless. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I wanted to offer a sincere apology. You didn't deserve any of it."
Ken remained silent, a statue in the doorway. He watched Mikael struggle with the weight of his own guilt, waiting for a response that didn't come. Finally, Mikael broke the stare.
"I am so sorry, Ken," he muttered again.
"I heard you the first time," Ken replied. "And sadly for your conscience, I forgave you long ago. I forgave you two days after it happened. I don't intend to burden myself with the past or weary myself with hatred. I have decided to move on. You should, too."
Mikael's expression shifted to one of pure disbelief. He had prepared for a storm of tears and screaming, but Ken was giving him nothing to fight against.
"I'm glad you did," Mikael said, finally finding a shred of confidence. "I was scared this would be a fight. I'm grateful it isn't. And I'm still sorry."
"If that would be all, I'd like to get back to my morning," Ken responded.
Mikael took a deep breath. "Yes. That's all."
"Then you can take your leave."
Mikael turned to go, then paused. Without looking back, he muttered, "Emily and I are leaving for England. Soon. So you don't have to worry about seeing either of us again." He turned his head just enough for Ken to see the sadness in his eyes. "Once more... I'm sorry."
He walked toward his car, and Ken watched him go. He's leaving? But why? The thought flickered like a dying candle, but Ken blew it out. He had promised himself: no more drama. No more solving the mysteries of wealthy people. If Mikael was leaving, it wasn't Ken's problem. It was just a personification of his baggage being bundled into a car and driven away.
He shut the door, locked it, and headed for school.
The college grounds felt different that day—lighter, brighter, as if the departure of Mikael had cleared the very air of the city. Ken headed straight for the Art Club. He had a plan today: he was going to paint a self-portrait. He wanted to capture the face of the man he was becoming—someone independent, resilient, and free.
But as he stepped into the high-ceilinged hall, his eyes caught something that made his heart stop for an entirely different reason.
Standing by the window, his silhouette framed by the morning light, was Lucien. He was dressed in his signature charcoal-black, an emotionless mask on his face as he worked meticulously on a drawing board.
You have got to be kidding me, Ken thought. He walked straight over to Lucien and stood directly in his line of sight, behind the board.
"Don't tell me this is fate again, Lucien," Ken said, crossing his arms. "What exactly are you doing here?"
"Painting," Lucien replied calmly. His voice lacked the biting frost of their previous encounters.
Ken stepped around the board to see what the "Billionaire of the Abyss" could possibly be creating. His breath hitched. It was a portrait. It was him. The detail was staggering—every curl of his hair, the specific light in his eyes, even the slight tension in his jaw. It looked as if Ken had sat for him for hours.
"Me?" Ken whispered. "But... why?"
Lucien did something then that he hadn't done in a very long time. He smiled. It was a small, genuine curve of the lips that didn't reach his eyes but softened his entire face.
"I just wanted to," Lucien replied. "You were the first person who came to mind."
Ken took two steps back, his suspicion rising. "What game are you playing this time, Lucien?"
Lucien added one final stroke to the canvas, then turned fully toward Ken. He remembered Sylvia's advice: Try being nicer. Start as friends.
"No games this time," Lucien said, his voice steady. "We got off on the wrong start. I've spent a long time being... difficult. I propose a retry. I'm Lucien Luther. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ken."
Ken stared at him, baffled. "Are you for real?"
"I am," Lucien replied. "I apologize for my previous behavior. I am not well-versed in socialization, but I am learning. What do you say?"
None of it made sense. This wasn't the man who had loomed over him in the Crimson Vault. But as Ken looked at the painting—the sheer care put into every stroke—he felt a shift. Maybe he really is trying to learn, Ken thought.
Lucien picked up the painting and handed it to him. "A symbol of my sincerest apologies. Is all forgiven?"
Ken took the canvas. It was immaculate. "Thank you... Lucien."
"You are welcome," Lucien said, reaching for a book on the table.
As he turned to leave, Ken spoke up, his voice impulsive. "If you don't mind... could I paint you? I was going to do a self-portrait, but since you've already done me... I don't have a subject."
"Sure," Lucien replied. "I'm free."
Lucien sat on a chair a few feet away, opening his book. For the next five hours, he sat in absolute, uncanny stillness. No stretching, no breaks, no shifting. He simply read, turning the pages with a slow, deliberate grace.
When Ken finally finished and handed the painting to Lucien, the billionaire bowed slightly in appreciation. The cold gaze was gone, replaced by something quiet and observant.
Days blossomed into weeks. Their friendship grew in the quiet of the art hall. They painted together—sometimes the same subjects, sometimes opposite concepts, but often, each other. The conversations became easier, the silences less heavy.
A month after their "retry," a warm Saturday morning arrived. Lucien visited Ken's mother at the hospital, bringing the usual daffodils and fresh fruit. Ken, who had slept over in the cramped hospital chair, woke up as the door clicked open.
"Hey... it's you," Ken said, his voice thick with sleep.
"Hey," Lucien replied, placing the flowers on the sill. "What's up?"
"I was wondering," Ken said, stretching his stiff back. "Could you give me a ride to my apartment? I need a real shower and a change of clothes."
"Sure. I have an hour before my next meeting."
The drive was quiet, but it was a comfortable silence. When they pulled up to Ken's building, Ken reached for the door handle, but Lucien's voice stopped him.
"Ken. Could I... talk to you for a moment?"
Ken paused, his hand on the latch. He turned back to see Lucien looking at him with an intensity that made the air in the SUV feel thick.
"Sure. I'm listening."
Lucien looked directly into Ken's eyes. The corporate mask was gone. The "learning" persona was gone. This was the man himself.
"I've spent most of my life moving from one objective to the next," Lucien began. "In my world, people are usually just passing through—they serve a purpose, and then they're gone. I've never seen the value in lingering. Then I met you."
Ken held his breath.
"It's an unfamiliar sensation," Lucien continued. "Realizing that I've started to plan my days around where you'll be. I'm a man of very few needs, but I've found that your presence has become one of them. It's not sentiment; it's a matter of fact. The space next to me feels... incorrect when you aren't in it."
Lucien leaned forward slightly. "I know I'm not an easy man. My life is quiet, and the demands on my time are absolute. But I'm asking you to step into that world with me. Not because I need someone to follow me, but because I've decided I don't want to see what the future looks like if you aren't part of it."
He paused, his gaze never wavering. "I'm offering you my time, my loyalty, and everything I have at my disposal. All I ask in return is that you stay. Not out of obligation, but because you choose to. So, tell me, Ken. Are you willing to take that step with me?"