Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9AC3ZDM9NZ35C82TDSHDY

The front door of Eva’s flat groaned open under the weight of a man who didn’t belong there. Aurora Carter froze mid-step, her breath catching as Lucien Moreau stepped inside, his tailored charcoal suit clinging to his frame like a second skin. The scent of old parchment and something faintly metallic—like the air before a storm—wrapped around her. She’d been expecting him for weeks, but not like this. “You’re late,” she said, voice sharper than she intended. Lucien didn’t look at her. Instead, he moved past her, his cane tapping against the worn linoleum with deliberate precision. The flat smelled of dried herbs and the faint tang of his own cologne, something expensive and dark. He stopped at the window, pressing his fingers against the glass to let in the dim London afternoon light. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—gleamed at her over his shoulder. “You didn’t have to come,” she said, though she knew better than to let the words hang. “You didn’t have to send the message,” he countered, turning to face her. “But you did.” Aurora exhaled through her nose, rubbing the small crescent scar on her left wrist where the memory of a childhood accident still stung. She’d been twelve when it happened, and the pain hadn’t faded. Not yet. “You know why I’m here,” she said, her voice low. “I’m not here to apologize.” Lucien’s lips curved, just a fraction, before he straightened. “Then you’re wasting your time.” “Maybe,” she admitted, stepping closer. “But I’m here because I’m done running.” He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching her, as if waiting for her to say something else. The air between them thickened, charged with the weight of years—of stolen glances, of whispered promises, of unspoken things. “You were supposed to be in Paris,” she said suddenly. “Not here.” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “And you were supposed to be in Cardiff.” “Eva’s been sick,” she said, her fingers tightening around the edge of the coffee table. “She needs me.” Lucien’s expression darkened. “I know.” A beat of silence. The flat was too quiet, too still. Then, slowly, he turned back to the window, his cane resting against the sill. “You should’ve told me.” “You didn’t ask,” she said, her voice quieter now. “And I didn’t owe you that.” He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. The kind of book that wasn’t just a book—it was a weapon, a record, a thing of power. He held it up, the ivory handle of his cane glinting in the light. “You’re not leaving until you tell me what’s really going on,” he said. Aurora’s breath hitched. “What do you mean?” Lucien didn’t look away. “You’ve been hiding something. And I’m not going to let you.” The flat felt smaller now, the space between them tighter. She could feel the heat of his gaze, the way his presence alone seemed to warp the air around her. She’d been so careful, so careful to keep things between them from getting too close. But now, standing here, she wondered if she’d ever been able to keep them apart. “You’re not the only one who’s been running,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Lucien’s eyes darkened. “Then let’s stop.” The door behind her creaked open. A shadowy figure stepped inside, their silhouette too tall, too familiar. Aurora’s pulse spiked. “Aurora,” Eva said, her voice trembling. “I’m sorry.” Lucien’s gaze snapped toward the door, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned and walked out, the door slamming behind him. Aurora stood frozen, her hands clenched into fists. Eva’s flat was too quiet without him. Too empty. “He’s not going to stay,” she said, her voice breaking. “Not after what he saw.” Eva’s eyes were red-rimmed, her usual sharpness dulled. “I know.” Aurora turned away, her back to the door, and pressed her fingers to her temples. The weight of the past few minutes pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating. She’d come here to fix things, to make things right. But Lucien Moreau had other plans. And she wasn’t sure she could keep up.