Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQC0RVZ67KEPAN4K4D9XDB

The deadbolt scraped back with a sound like a knife being drawn. Rory’s breath hitched, fingers tightening around the edge of the door. The chain rattled, the last barrier between her and the hallway’s dim light. Lucien stood there, one hand resting on the ivory head of his cane, the other adjusting the cuff of his charcoal suit. His amber eye caught the light from the stairwell, sharp as a blade. The black one swallowed it whole. "You’re not Eva." Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. "No. She’s at work." The words came out flatter than she intended. She didn’t step aside. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "I see." He didn’t move. Neither did she. Ptolemy wound between her ankles, tail flicking. The cat’s green eyes locked onto Lucien, unblinking. "You going to let me in, *chérie*?" The old endearment curled around her ribs like smoke. She should’ve said no. Should’ve shut the door, turned the deadbolts, pretended she hadn’t heard him at all. But her body betrayed her, shifting just enough to let him slip past. The flat smelled of old paper and cardamom from the curry house below. Lucien’s cane tapped against the floorboards as he stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the clutter—stacks of books teetering on the coffee table, scrolls unrolled across the sofa, a half-empty mug of tea gone cold. "You’ve been busy," he said. Rory shut the door harder than necessary. "What do you want, Lucien?" He turned, slow, deliberate. The lamplight caught the silver threads in his suit, the way his platinum hair gleamed like something forged. "Straight to the point. I always liked that about you." "Cut the act. You didn’t come here for nostalgia." His mouth quirked. "No. I didn’t." He reached into his jacket, and Rory’s hand twitched toward the knife in her boot. But all he pulled out was a folded slip of paper. He held it between two fingers, offering it to her. "This was left at my office. No note. No explanation." She didn’t take it. "And?" "And it’s addressed to you." Her name was scrawled across the paper in ink that looked too dark, too wet, like it had been written in something thicker than ink. Rory’s stomach twisted. She snatched it from him, unfolded it. A single line, in a handwriting she didn’t recognize: *"Ask her about the night at the docks."* Her fingers trembled. She crumpled the paper in her fist. Lucien’s voice was quiet. "You know what it means." She did. Of course she did. The docks. The fire. The way the air had smelled of salt and burning hair. The way Lucien had looked at her afterward, like she was something broken he couldn’t fix. She turned away, pressing her palm against the windowpane. The glass was cold. "Why bring it to me?" "Because I don’t like being used." His cane tapped once, twice. "And because whoever sent this knows we have history." History. Such a clean word for the mess they’d made. Rory exhaled through her nose. "You could’ve mailed it. Or burned it." "I could have." A pause. "But I wanted to see you." The words hung between them, heavy as the scent of rain before a storm. She should’ve laughed. Should’ve told him to leave. Instead, she said, "You always did have terrible timing." His laugh was low, rough. "And you always did have a talent for understatement." Ptolemy leapt onto the back of the sofa, tail lashing. The cat’s eyes were slits, fixed on Lucien like he was prey. Rory crossed her arms. "You’re not staying." "Wouldn’t dream of it." He didn’t move. "But we both know this isn’t over." She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she’d moved on, that whatever had been between them was dead and buried. But the words stuck in her throat. Lucien stepped closer. Close enough that she could see the faint scar above his eyebrow, the way his pupils dilated in the dim light. Close enough that she could smell the bergamot and gunpowder scent of him. "You’re shaking," he murmured. She wasn’t. Not really. But her skin prickled where his breath ghosted over her temple. His fingers brushed her wrist, just below the crescent-shaped scar. "Still jumpy, I see." Rory jerked back. "Don’t." He held up his hands, palms out. "Just an observation." "An observation you didn’t need to make in person." His mouth twisted. "Maybe I missed you." The air left her lungs. She wanted to hit him. Wanted to kiss him. Wanted to scream until her throat was raw. Instead, she said, "Get out." Lucien studied her for a long moment. Then he dipped his head, just once. "As you wish." He turned toward the door, his cane clicking against the floor. At the threshold, he paused. "Rory." She didn’t look at him. "Be careful." The door clicked shut behind him. Rory pressed her forehead against the wood, listening to the sound of his footsteps fading down the stairs. Her fingers uncurled from the crumpled paper in her hand. The night at the docks. The fire. The way Lucien had looked at her when she’d lied to his face. She should’ve burned the note. Should’ve let him walk away. But some things, once lit, couldn’t be extinguished.