Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNF6K1ADKYEFC1N39DPDR6F

The knock at the door was soft, almost hesitant. Aurora set down her book on the cluttered table and frowned. Eva wasn’t due back for hours, and no one else knew where she was staying since she’d moved into Eva’s chaotic, book-strewn flat above the curry house. She crossed the room, careful not to trip over Ptolemy, who lay sprawled in the middle of the floor like a furry obstacle. Three deadbolts clicked open under her fingers. She cracked the door just enough to peer out—and froze. Lucien Moreau stood on the threshold, looking as immaculate as ever in a charcoal suit that clung to his frame like it had been tailored by angels. His platinum hair was perfectly slicked back, his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—piercing as they met hers. He leaned on his ivory-handled cane, the picture of composed elegance, but Aurora noticed the faint tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tightened imperceptibly on the cane’s handle. “Bonjour, Rory,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, with just a hint of that French accent that had always made her stomach flip. She stared at him, her heartbeat suddenly loud in her ears. Months. It had been months since she’d last seen him, since she’d walked away from his opulent townhouse in Mayfair without looking back. Months of silence, of unanswered texts, of deliberately avoiding the places she knew he frequented. And now here he was, standing on Eva’s doorstep like he’d just strolled in from a leisurely afternoon in Hyde Park. “What are you doing here?” Her voice came out sharper than she intended, but she didn’t care. Lucien raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into that infuriating half-smirk she’d once found irresistible. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” “We’re not friends,” she said flatly, though her traitorous pulse quickened at the word “old.” He tilted his head, studying her with that unnerving intensity that always made her feel like he could see straight through her. “Aren’t we?” Aurora crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers brushing the small crescent-shaped scar on her wrist—a nervous habit she couldn’t seem to break. “Cut the crap, Lucien. What do you want?” His smirk faltered, just for a moment, before he schooled his expression back into its usual mask of cool detachment. “May I come in?” She hesitated, her mind racing. Letting him in felt like opening a door she’d fought hard to keep closed, but turning him away would only prolong this awkward encounter. And deep down, beneath the anger and the hurt, there was a part of her that wanted to know why he was here. With a sigh, she stepped back and gestured him inside. “Fine. But make it quick.” Lucien stepped past her, his cane tapping softly against the wooden floorboards. Ptolemy, ever the curious cat, immediately padded over to investigate, sniffing at the polished leather of Lucien’s shoes. Lucien glanced down, his expression softening for a brief moment before he turned his attention to the cluttered room. “Charming,” he remarked, his gaze sweeping over the piles of books and scrolls that covered every available surface. “Cozy, even.” “I didn’t invite you for a critique of Eva’s decorating skills,” Aurora said, shutting the door and leaning against it. She crossed her arms again, her bright blue eyes fixed on him. “Talk.” Lucien turned to face her, his cane resting lightly between them. For a moment, he said nothing, just looked at her with that unreadable expression that drove her mad. Then he exhaled, a barely audible sigh, and said, “I want to apologize.” Aurora blinked. Of all the things she’d expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them. “What?” “I said I want to apologize,” he repeated, his voice quieter now, less polished. “For how things ended between us.” She laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “You mean how you disappeared for weeks without so much as a text? Or how you acted like I didn’t exist when I finally showed up at your damn townhouse?” His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. “Both. And more.” Aurora shook her head, her black hair brushing against her shoulders. “You’re unbelievable. You think you can just waltz in here, say you’re sorry, and everything’s going to be fine?” “No,” he said simply. “I don’t expect anything. I just… needed you to know that I regret it. All of it.” She stared at him, her chest tight with emotions she didn’t want to name. Anger, yes, but also something softer, something she’d tried to bury. “Why now?” she asked finally. “Why bother after all this time?” Lucien hesitated, a rare crack in his usually flawless composure. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he admitted, his voice low. “Because every time I walked into a room, I kept expecting to see you there. And when you weren’t…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the floor. Aurora’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected that, hadn’t prepared for it. She’d spent months convincing herself that he hadn’t cared, that whatever they’d had had been as fleeting for him as it had been inevitable for her. But now, here he was, looking almost vulnerable, and it shattered something inside her. “Lucien…” she began, but he cut her off. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he said quickly, raising his eyes to meet hers again. “And I’m not asking for it. I just… I needed you to know. That’s all.” For a long moment, they just looked at each other, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. Aurora wanted to stay angry, to hold onto the hurt like armor, but it was hard to do when he was standing there, looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. “You’re an asshole,” she said finally, her voice softer than she intended. Lucien chuckled, a small, rueful sound. “I know.” “And I’m an idiot for even considering this,” she added, though her heart wasn’t in the words. “But?” he prompted, his amber eye glinting with something like hope. Aurora sighed, running a hand through her hair. “But… I missed you too,” she admitted quietly. The relief that flickered across his face was almost palpable. He stepped closer, his cane forgotten at his side. “Rory…” She held up a hand, stopping him before he could say more. “Don’t. Not yet. I… I need time to think.” He nodded, his expression serious. “Of course. Take all the time you need.” Silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Ptolemy, having lost interest in Lucien’s shoes, wandered over to curl up on the pile of books by the window. Somewhere outside, the sounds of Brick Lane filtered through the thin walls—laughter, the hum of traffic, the faint sizzle of food from the curry house below. “I should go,” Lucien said finally, breaking the quiet. Aurora nodded, though she wasn’t ready for him to leave just yet. “Yeah. Okay.” He turned toward the door, but hesitated before reaching for the handle. “There’s a party tomorrow night,” he said, glancing back at her. “At the townhouse. If you wanted to come…” She raised an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation?” “It’s whatever you want it to be,” he replied, his tone carefully neutral. Aurora considered that, her mind racing with possibilities. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “That’s all I can ask.” With that, he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Aurora watched him go, her heart still pounding in her chest. She closed the door softly and leaned against it, letting out a long breath. Ptolemy meowed softly from his perch, as if offering his opinion. “Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, pushing away from the door and heading toward the kitchen. She needed a cup of tea, or maybe something stronger, and a lot of time to think about what had just happened. Because one thing was certain: nothing about Lucien Moreau was ever simple.