AI Aurora stood in the cramped kitchen of Eva's flat, her fingers stained with turmeric. She stirred a bubbling pot of curry, the rich aroma swirling around her. The flickering light overhead cast shadows dancing across the walls, adorned with books and scrolls that leaned precariously.
A soft thud interrupted her concentration. The sound echoed from the doorway. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, her heart quickening. Maybe it was Eva, back from her errands.
Opening the door, her breath caught. Lucien Moreau stood there, his tailored charcoal suit impeccable, the ivory-handled cane tapping rhythmically against the door frame. He looked the same yet somehow different—his slicked-back platinum blond hair glimmered in the dull light as if he harnessed shadows in a way she had never seen before.
"Lucien," she breathed, shock mingling with a rush of old feelings.
“Aurora.” His mouth pulled into a half-smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. He glanced around, clearly taking in the clutter of the flat.
She felt the weight of their past hanging in the air. Memories cascaded through her mind like a torrent. Heated arguments, passionate nights, the bitter taste of his betrayal.
“Why are you here?” She stepped back, the cool air of the hallway rushing in.
“I came to talk,” he said, voice smooth like velvet , but the underlying tension sharpened the edges of each word. “May I?”
Without waiting for her to respond, he slipped past her, the undeniable presence of him filling the small space. The door swung shut behind him, sealing them in together.
Rory crossed her arms, fighting to ignore the way her pulse quickened as he moved through the flat. He’d always had a way of occupying the room, as if the very walls recognized his authority.
“Your flat hasn’t changed much,” he said, glancing at the stacks of books. “Still in over your head, I see.”
“Better to be over my head in books than under your thumb,” she shot back, eyes narrowing .
His expression faltered for a moment, the flicker of hurt showing. She hadn’t meant to strike that chord, but the words slipped out, raw and festering from the wounds of their last encounter .
“Touché,” he replied, a hint of a challenge lurking beneath his calm surface. “But I'm not here to fight.”
“Then what do you want?” The curry continued to simmer, the room heavy with unspoken words.
“I need your help, Aurora.” He moved closer, an earnestness creeping into his tone.
“I’m not your damsel in distress, Lucien. I don’t owe you anything.”
Her retort cut through the air, sharp and bitter. The mention of ‘help’ sparked a ghost of their shared history, inscribed in whispers and loyalty bruised.
“You might want to reconsider that,” he said, voice dropping, the gravity of his words settling like a stone in her stomach . “Things are changing in London, the underworld... I wouldn’t show up like this if I didn’t have no other choice.”
“What do you mean?” Her breath hitched, compelled by curiosity and a thread of concern.
He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture she hadn’t seen from him in years. “I’m not the only one looking for something. There’s a power shift—a lot of players are looking to capitalize. I need someone who knows the streets, who’ll navigate the intricacies. I need you.”
“Just like that? You think I’ll drop everything and help you after—”
“After the mess we made, I know,” he interrupted. “And I know I’m the last person you want to see. But if you want to keep things as they are—”
“Which would be?” she challenged, stepping closer, arms uncrossing but spirit still protected.
“Safe,” he finished quietly, standing uncomfortably in the gaps they’d left, the left unsaid hanging heavy like the humidity in the air.
She hesitated, caught in the sway of his presence. “And what do you think I am? A pawn in your game?”
Lucien inhaled sharply , the moment stretching between them like an elastic. “You’re not a pawn , Rory. You’re—”
His words halted as a soft meow interrupted, Ptolemy the tabby winding between Lucien’s legs. The cat’s innocent plea lightened the weight in the air, though it did nothing to ease the tension simmering just beneath the surface.
“Oh, for heaven's sake.” She stooped to cradle Ptolemy, needing the distraction. The soft purr felt soothing against her palms.
“Can we drop the posturing?” he asked, his voice cutting through the feigned indifference . “What we had wasn’t a strategy. It was real. You know that.”
Rory pressed her lips together, unwilling to admit the truth wrapped in his words. The heat from the curry pot shimmered like the memories of their nights entwined when everything felt easy, uncomplicated.
“So, your plan is to charm me into helping you?” she teased, but the vulnerability in her tone slipped through her defenses.
“I would never presume,” he replied, sincerity painting the edges of his smirk . “But it does help.”
“I don’t trust you,” she declared, despite the warmth she felt unfurling in her chest.
“Fair enough,” he shrugged, adjusting his suit jacket. “Trust takes time, but the clock's ticking. Either you help me, or we both end up regretting what’s about to unfold.”
“Always the strategist,” she replied, letting Ptolemy leap down as if he sensed the tension between them.
“You leave me no other choice,” he returned, his voice quiet but intense .
Rory’s breath caught. His determination ignited a flicker of old feelings, confusing and captivating all at once.
“What’s really happening?” she whispered, clinging to the last remnants of caution.
Lucien’s jaw tightened, the weight of their history washing over him. “I don’t want to drag you into this. But there’s too much at stake. I... care, Rory.”
The admission lingered in the space between them, wrapping around unspoken emotions that had long festered.
“What does that mean?” she asked, the words barely forming as the truth struck like a lightning bolt.
“It means I never wanted things to end the way they did,” he admitted, voice breaking slightly .
Rory caught the flash in his eyes, a storm of sincerity and regret. She felt the pull, the attraction crackling with tension . But the past wouldn’t easily let her go.
“Lucien, I—”
“Rory, please,” he implored, stepping closer, resonating warmth beckoning at her walls.
They stood there, as if time had stopped, burdened by all that lay in their wake.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she finally said, her resolve wavering .
“Let me show you,” he offered, a glimmer of hope flickering like a beacon in the chaos.
She searched his face, finding the vulnerability she had once known so well. Here he was, unguarded and raw, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, igniting memories they had buried deep.
“I’ll think about it,” she replied, forcing the walls of her heart to stay firm.
“Thinking is a good start.”
In that moment, the space between them pulsed , alive with what had been and what could be, each heartbeat echoing with uncertainty and promise. And just like that, they sparked back to life.