AI The front door of Eva’s flat groaned under the weight of someone’s heavy footfall , the deadbolt clattering against the frame with a sound like a warning. Aurora Carter—Rory, to those who knew her—hadn’t expected anyone. Not after the way things ended last time. The last time she’d been here, she’d been running.
Now, the door swung open with a force that made the frame shudder, and Lucien Moreau stood there, his cane tapping against the worn linoleum with the deliberate precision of a man who’d spent years mastering the art of being in control. His suit was immaculate, his hair slicked back just so, but his eyes—one amber, one black—held something she’d seen before in the dim light of her own flat: a flicker of something dangerous.
“You’re late,” she said, voice sharp as the blade at the end of his cane.
Lucien didn’t flinch. “I’m never late for a job.” His gaze flicked over her, taking in the way her fingers were curled around the edge of the doorframe, the way her breath hitched when he stepped closer. “Or a woman who owes me money.”
“You’re not here about money,” she muttered, stepping back as if he’d struck her. “Not after what you did.”
“And what did I do?” His voice was low, smooth, the kind of voice that made her skin prickle. “I told you to leave. You didn’t listen.”
The air between them thickened, charged with the kind of tension that had always been there between them—before, during, and after. Before the way she’d seen the way he looked at her, before the way he’d made her forget her own name. Before the way she’d let him.
“You were right,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper . “I should’ve left.”
“And yet,” he said, stepping closer , “you didn’t.”
The door swung shut behind him with a finality that made her stomach twist. She shouldn’t have come. She shouldn’t have let herself hope. But here she was, standing in the middle of Eva’s cluttered flat, the scent of old books and something faintly metallic from the cat—Ptolemy—lingering in the air. The cat, sprawled across the armchair, didn’t even look up.
“You’re not welcome here,” she said, her voice breaking just slightly .
Lucien’s fingers twitched toward the cane. “I’m not here to be welcome.”
The flat was a maze of bookshelves and half-finished projects, the kind of place that made her feel like she was intruding on someone else’s life. But she was here now, and she wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he left.
“Why did you come?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the hum of the flat’s old fridge.
Lucien didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, watching her, his gaze darkening with something she couldn’t name. “Because you’re trouble,” he said finally . “And I like trouble.”
The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She’d thought she’d left that behind. She’d thought she was done with him. But here he was, standing in her space, and she was still here, still breathing, still *alive *.
“You’re not the only one who owes me,” she said, her voice trembling . “You owe me an explanation.”
Lucien’s smile was slow, knowing. “And what explanation would that be?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she reached for the door handle, her fingers trembling. “I’m going to leave.”
Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor again, this time with a rhythm that was almost musical. “No,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “You’re not.”
The flat seemed to close in around her, the air thick with the weight of what had been and what was to come. She should’ve left. She should’ve run. But she was here, and he was here, and the past was a tangled mess of promises broken and words left unsaid.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she said, her voice breaking . “Not after everything.”
Lucien’s smile was a blade, sharp and cutting. “And yet, here you are.”
The door swung open again, this time with a force that made the flat tremble. Eva’s flat. Rory’s flat. The same place where they’d first met, where they’d fallen, where they’d broken. And now, here they were again, caught in the same web of attraction and pain.
“You’re not welcome here,” she said, her voice breaking . “Not after what you did.”
Lucien stepped closer, his cane tapping against the floor with the rhythm of a metronome counting down to something terrible. “And yet,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The flat seemed to close in around them, the air thick with the weight of what had been and what was to come. She should’ve left. She should’ve run. But she was here, and he was here, and the past was a tangled mess of promises broken and words left unsaid.
“You’re not the only one who owes me,” she said, her voice trembling . “You owe me an explanation.”
Lucien’s fingers twitched toward the cane, the blade hidden just beneath the surface. “And what explanation would that be?”
She reached for the door handle, her fingers trembling. “I’m going to leave.”
Lucien’s smile was slow, knowing. “No,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “You’re not.”
The flat seemed to close in around them, the air thick with the weight of what had been and what was to come. The cat, Ptolemy, stretched out on the armchair, his tail flicking lazily as if he didn’t give a damn about any of it.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she said, her voice breaking . “Not after everything.”
Lucien’s smile was a blade, sharp and cutting. “And yet, here you are.”
The door swung shut behind them, the deadbolt clicking into place with a finality that made her stomach twist. She should’ve left. She should’ve run. But she was here, and he was here, and the past was a tangled mess of promises broken and words left unsaid.
“You’re not welcome here,” she said, her voice breaking . “Not after what you did.”
Lucien stepped closer, his cane tapping against the floor with the rhythm of a metronome counting down to something terrible. “And yet,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The flat was a maze of shadows and half-lit corners, the scent of old books and something faintly metallic from the cat’s fur lingering in the air. The cat, Ptolemy, didn’t even look up as they stood there, trapped in the same moment, the same past, the same future that was already written in the way their eyes met.
“You’re not the only one who owes me,” she said, her voice barely audible over the hum of the flat’s old fridge. “You owe me an explanation.”
Lucien’s fingers brushed against the cane, the blade glinting in the dim light. “And what explanation would that be?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, the words carrying the weight of something he’d been waiting to say for years. “Because I know what you did.”
She should’ve left. She should’ve run. But she was here, standing in the middle of Eva’s flat, the scent of old books and something faintly metallic from the cat’s fur clinging to her skin. The cat, Ptolemy, stretched out on the armchair, his tail flicking lazily , as if he didn’t give a damn about any of it.
“You’re not welcome here,” she said, her voice breaking . “Not after what you did.”
Lucien’s smile was slow, knowing. “And yet,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The door swung shut behind them, the deadbolt clicking into place with a finality that made her stomach twist. The flat seemed to close in around them, the air thick with the weight of what had been and what was to come.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she said, her voice trembling . “Not after everything.”
Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, the blade hidden just beneath the surface, ready to strike. “And yet,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The cat, Ptolemy, didn’t even blink as they stood there, the past a tangled mess of promises broken and words left unsaid. She should’ve left. She should’ve run. But she was here, and he was here, and the future was already written in the way their eyes met, in the way his fingers twitched toward the blade at the end of his cane.
“You’re not the only one who owes me,” she said, her voice barely a whisper . “You owe me an explanation.”
Lucien’s smile was a blade, sharp and cutting, as he stepped closer, the air between them thick with the weight of what had been and what was to come. The cat, Ptolemy, stretched out on the armchair, his tail flicking lazily , as if he didn’t care about any of it.
“You know,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.”
The doorframe loomed between them, the deadbolt locked with finality. The scent of old books and something faintly metallic from the cat’s fur filled the air, thick and heavy. Aurora’s breath came in ragged gasps, her fingers digging into the doorframe as she tried to pull away.
Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, the blade glinting in the dim light, ready to strike. “You know,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.”
She turned to face him, her eyes wide with fear and something else—something she couldn’t name. The cat, Ptolemy, didn’t even move, sprawled across the armchair, his tail flicking lazily , as if he were indifferent to the storm brewing between them.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she whispered, her voice breaking . “Not after everything.”
Lucien’s smile was slow, knowing. “And yet,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The flat’s walls seemed to close in around them, the air thick with the weight of the past and the promise of the future. The cat, Ptolemy, didn’t even look up as Lucien stepped closer, his cane tapping against the floor, the blade hidden beneath the surface, ready to strike.
“You’re not the only one who owes me,” she said, her voice barely audible, her heart pounding in her chest. “You owe me an explanation.”
Lucien’s fingers brushed against the cane, the blade catching the light. “And what explanation would that be?” His voice was a low rumble, the words carrying the weight of secrets buried deep.
She should’ve run. She should’ve left. But here she was, standing in the middle of Eva’s flat, the scent of old books and the faint metallic tang of the cat’s fur clinging to her skin. The cat, Ptolemy, stretched lazily on the armchair, his tail flicking, as if he didn’t care about the storm brewing between them.
“You know,” Lucien said, his voice low, “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.”
The doorframe pressed against her back, the deadbolt locked tight. The air between them crackled with tension , thick with the weight of what had been and the promise of what was yet to come.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she whispered, her fingers digging into the wood . “Not after everything.”
Lucien’s smile was a blade, sharp and cold. “And yet,” he said, his voice a low growl, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The flat’s walls seemed to pulse around them, the scent of old books and the faint metallic tang of the cat’s fur mixing with the sharp, acrid smell of something else—something that made her stomach clench.
“You’re not welcome here,” she said, her voice barely a breath. “Not after what you did.”
Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, the blade glinting in the dim light. “And yet,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The cat, Ptolemy, didn’t stir. He didn’t even blink. He was just there, sprawled across the armchair, his tail flicking lazily , as if he didn’t care about the storm that was about to break.
“You know,” Lucien said, his voice low, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t name. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.”
She should’ve left. She should’ve run. But she couldn’t move. She was trapped, caught between the past and the present, the weight of what had been and the promise of what was to come.
“You’re not the only one who owes me,” she said, her voice barely a whisper . “You owe me an explanation.”
Lucien stepped closer, his cane tapping against the floor, the blade hidden beneath the surface. The air between them was thick with the scent of old books and the faint metallic tang of the cat’s fur, mixed with something else—something darker, something more dangerous.
“And what explanation would that be?” His voice was a low rumble, the words carrying the weight of secrets buried deep. “Because I know what you did.”
She should’ve run. She should’ve left. But here she was, standing in the middle of Eva’s flat, the scent of old books and the faint metallic tang of the cat’s fur clinging to her skin. The cat, Ptolemy, stretched lazily on the armchair, his tail flicking, as if he didn’t care about the storm brewing between them.
The door swung open again, the deadbolt clicking shut with a finality that made her breath catch. The air between them was thick with tension , with the weight of what had been and the promise of what was to come.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she whispered, her fingers digging into the doorframe . “Not after everything.”
Lucien’s smile was slow, knowing. “And yet,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The flat’s walls seemed to close in around them, the scent of old books and the faint metallic tang of the cat’s fur thick in the air. The cat, Ptolemy, didn’t even look up as Lucien stepped closer, his cane tapping against the floor, the blade glinting in the dim light.
“You’re not the only one who owes me,” she said, her voice barely audible. “You owe me an explanation.”
Lucien’s fingers brushed against the cane, the blade catching the light. “And what explanation would that be?” His voice was a low rumble, the words carrying the weight of secrets she didn’t want to hear.
She should’ve run. She should’ve left. But she couldn’t. Not now. Not when he was here, standing in her space, his presence a storm gathering in the corners of the flat.
“You know,” he said, his voice low, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t ignore. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.”
The scent of old books and the faint metallic tang of the cat’s fur filled the air, thick and heavy, the flat seeming to close in around them. The cat, Ptolemy, sprawled on the armchair, his tail flicking lazily , as if indifferent to the storm about to break.
Aurora’s breath came in ragged gasps, her fingers digging into the doorframe. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she whispered, her voice breaking .
Lucien’s smile was a blade, sharp and cold. “And yet,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The deadbolt clicked shut behind them, the doorframe pressing against her back. The air was thick with the weight of secrets, of promises broken and words left unsaid.
“You’re not welcome here,” she said, her voice barely a whisper . “Not after what you did.”
Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, the blade hidden beneath the surface. “And yet,” he said, his voice low, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t look away from. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The flat’s walls seemed to pulse around them, the scent of old books and the faint metallic tang of the cat’s fur mixing with the sharp, acrid tang of something else—something that made her stomach twist.
“You know,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.”
Aurora’s pulse pounded in her ears, her fingers trembling against the doorframe. The cat, Ptolemy, didn’t even blink, sprawled across the armchair, his tail flicking lazily , as if he didn’t care about the storm brewing between them.
“You owe me an explanation,” she said, her voice barely a breath. “And you know what that means.”
Lucien’s smile was slow, knowing. “And yet,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The door swung shut again, the deadbolt clicking into place with finality. The air between them was charged , thick with the scent of old books, the faint metallic tang of the cat’s fur, and the promise of something darker, something more dangerous.
“You’re not welcome here,” she said, her voice breaking . “Not after everything.”
Lucien stepped closer, his cane tapping against the floor, the blade glinting in the dim light. The cat, Ptolemy, didn’t stir. He was just there, his tail flicking lazily , as if he didn’t care about the storm gathering between them.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. The flat seemed to hold its breath with her, the scent of old books and the faint metallic tang of the cat’s fur thick in the air. The past was a tangled mess of promises, of broken words, of moments she’d tried to forget.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she whispered, her fingers digging into the doorframe . “Not after everything.”
Lucien’s smile was a blade. “And yet,” he said, his voice a low growl, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The flat’s walls pressed in, the air charged with the weight of secrets and the promise of what was to come. The cat, Ptolemy, didn’t even look up. He was just there, sprawled across the armchair, his tail flicking lazily , as if he didn’t care about the storm that was about to break.
“You’re not the only one who owes me,” she said, her voice barely audible. “You owe me answers.”
Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, the blade catching the light. “And what answers would those be?” His voice was low, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t ignore.
Aurora’s breath came in shallow gasps, her vision blurring with the weight of the past and the fear of what was to come. The scent of old books and the faint metallic tang of the cat’s fur filled her nostrils, but it was the scent of something else that lingered, something sharp and bitter.
“You know,” Lucien said, his voice low, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t name. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.”
The doorframe pressed against her back, the deadbolt locked tight. The air between them was thick with tension , with secrets buried deep and promises left unfulfilled.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she whispered, her voice breaking . “Not after everything.”
Lucien’s smile was slow, knowing. “And yet,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The flat’s walls seemed to close in, the scent of old books and the faint metallic tang of the cat’s fur mixing with the acrid tang of something darker. The cat, Ptolemy, didn’t stir. He was just there, sprawled across the armchair, his tail flicking lazily , as if he didn’t care about the storm that was about to consume them.
“You’re not welcome here,” she said, her voice barely a whisper . “Not after what you did.”
Lucien’s fingers brushed the cane, the blade glinting in the dim light. “And yet,” he said, his voice low, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t look away from. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Aurora’s pulse roared in her ears, her fingers digging into the doorframe. The past was a storm, a mess of broken promises and unspoken words. The flat seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what was to come.
“You owe me,” she said, her voice barely a breath. “You owe me everything.”