Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY82YH2QERXK1YQJ419GN00

The chime above the door, a tinny rendition of a Celtic harp, startled her. Rory hadn’t heard it, hadn’t been expecting it. She’d been meticulously dissecting a particularly stubborn batch of General Tso’s chicken for Golden Empress, the rhythmic chop of the cleaver a familiar counterpoint to the city’s distant thrum. She wiped her hands on a stained apron, turning slowly. The hallway was narrow, smelling faintly of cardamom and frying oil. The door stood open, revealing Lucien Moreau. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. He simply stood there, a sculpted silhouette against the muted grey of the hallway. The charcoal suit, as always, was immaculate, the platinum blond hair slicked back, reflecting the faint light. He held his ivory-handled cane, its curve resting lightly against his palm. “You’re here,” she stated, the words clipped, devoid of inflection. He moved into the flat, his shoes silent on the worn Persian rug. It was a mess, predictably. Books spilled from shelves, stacks of research papers formed precarious towers on the worn coffee table, and a half-eaten bowl of noodles sat abandoned on the kitchen counter. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, materialized from beneath a pile of scrolls, stretched languidly, and then promptly resumed his surveillance of the newcomer. “I didn't exactly send a carrier pigeon,” Lucien’s voice was a smooth baritone, effortlessly multilingual, tinged with a subtle French accent. “A week's notice would have been appreciated.” “You’ve been avoiding my calls,” Rory replied, turning back to the wok, the heat shimmering around her. She didn’t look up. “Checking in on my whereabouts. A rather… inefficient method of communication, wouldn’t you agree?” “Efficiency isn’t always the priority,” he said, stepping closer to the stove. The air thickened with the scent of chili and garlic. “Sometimes, a little disruption is necessary.” He tilted his head almost imperceptibly, an assessment. “Especially when the disruption involves a woman who’s exceptionally good at creating incredibly spicy General Tso’s chicken.” Rory finally turned, a flicker of something – irritation, perhaps, or annoyance – in her bright blue eyes. “It pays the rent.” She resumed stirring, the metal against metal a sharp counterpoint to his presence. “And yet, you continue to make it.” He reached out, not touching her, but stopping just short of her forearm. “A strange compulsion.” She didn’t flinch. “Don’t.” The single word held a weight that surprised even her. He straightened, letting his hand fall back to his side. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. The only sound was the sizzle of the chicken in the wok. “Eva tells me you’ve been… busy.” He watched her expertly toss the peppers and scallions, a small, almost predatory observation. “Busy is a relative term,” Rory said, her voice tightening. “I’ve been delivering takeout. It’s less complicated than whatever you do.” “Complicated is my specialty,” Lucien countered, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Let’s just say I facilitate connections. Discreetly.” “Connections for whom?” He paused, considering her. "Those who require... solutions. Difficult problems. People willing to overlook certain boundaries.” His eyes, one amber, one black, seemed to pierce through her carefully constructed defenses. “You, for instance.” She slammed the wok onto the stove, the sudden noise jarring the quiet. “Don’t. Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Don’t reduce everything to some grand, dramatic narrative.” She grabbed a pair of chopsticks, stabbing a piece of chicken and bringing it to her mouth. “We had a messy thing. A long time ago. It doesn't need a soundtrack.” Lucien took a slow sip from a glass of water he’d inexplicably produced from a drawer. “Messy things rarely leave entirely. Especially when they involve a shared history of… intense attraction.” Rory chewed, her jaw tight. She hadn't wanted to think about it. Not really. The memory of the fight, the accusations, the raw, wounded anger – it felt like a shard of ice lodged in her chest. “I made a choice,” she said, the words flat. “I left.” “You fled,” he corrected, his voice quiet. “A significant distinction. A flight instinct, perhaps, inherited from a less-than-stable ancestral line.” She ignored him. “It was over Evan. He was… abusive. You wouldn't understand.” He nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. “I have encountered various forms of unpleasantness, yes. But abuse… that’s a particular darkness. I can observe its patterns.” "You were... concerned," she offered, testing the waters, unsure if it was an offer or a pointed observation. “I monitored your welfare,” he said. “At a safe distance. I ensured Evan was no longer a… factor.” His gaze lingered on her, unblinking, and Rory felt a prickle of something she hadn’t felt in years – a potent mix of vulnerability and defiance. It was a dangerous feeling, and she instinctively retreated. She busied herself with arranging the ingredients for spring rolls, the rhythmic folding of the delicate wrappers a shield against his intensity. “Why now?” she asked, finally. “After all this time. Why come back?” He moved towards her, closing the distance, until he stood close enough that she could smell the subtle scent of sandalwood and something else – something ancient and faintly unsettling. “Eva suggested it,” he said, his voice low. “She believes… you may need a little assistance with a particular complication.” “Eva? She’s been… meddling.” Rory’s frustration flared. “Eva’s intuition is remarkably accurate. And she possesses a disconcerting ability to pierce through facades.” He stopped just a breath away, his amber eye meeting hers. “She also believes you’ve been struggling. That the ghosts of the past are proving… persistent.” Rory’s breath hitched. He wasn't wrong. The nightmares had been getting worse. The scent of rain, his scent, always brought with it a renewed wave of panic and regret. “I don't need assistance,” she said, her voice strained. He tilted his head again, a silent challenge. He reached out, this time his fingers brushing against her wrist, sending a jolt of electricity through her. It wasn't a forceful touch, but it was deliberate, a slow, deliberate exploration. “Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, “you merely need someone to remind you what you’re capable of.” He released her wrist, but the lingering warmth remained. Ptolemy, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, leaped from the pile of scrolls and rubbed against Lucien’s legs, purring loudly. Rory swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. The scent of saffron and ginger mingled with his cologne, creating a dizzying, disorienting blend. She looked up, really looked at him, and saw not just the impeccably tailored suit and the slicked-back hair, but the weariness in his eyes, the shadows of battles fought and losses endured. “What complication is Eva referring to?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. Lucien straightened, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “Let’s just say,” he said, a wry smile returning to his lips, “it involves a stolen artifact. And a rather unpleasant client with a penchant for recklessness.” He paused, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "And you, my dear Rory, are unexpectedly connected to the solution."