Chapter 50: ~ 49 ~

LILA

Back at his penthouse, everything felt too still—like the kind of quiet you find in cathedrals or on the edge of a confession.

It was my first time there.

I’d seen it in pictures. Heard whispers about how breathtaking the view was. But nothing prepared me for the way the entire city seemed to bow to it from up here. Towering above everything, with floor-to-ceiling windows, soft lights, and warm-toned furniture that made everything feel less like a billionaire’s showplace and more like a home someone actually lived in.

It smelled like him. Cedar and something faintly spiced—clean and familiar. Safe.

Lucas shut the door behind us and gently set my suitcase by the entrance. I stood frozen near the living room, not quite knowing what to do with myself. He shrugged off his coat, stepped out of his shoes, and glanced at me with a softness I hadn’t seen in years.

"You can breathe here," he said quietly.

My lips twitched into a tired, fleeting smile. "You always knew how to say the right things."

He chuckled under his breath, then nodded toward the couch. “Sit. Talk to me.”

I walked over and sank into the cushions, hugging my arms around myself. The gravity of the day was finally crashing into me now that I was in a place I didn’t have to pretend I was okay. Lucas took the armchair across from me, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes never leaving mine.

“So…” he began slowly, “do the police have any leads?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. They asked all the routine questions, dusted for fingerprints. Said they’d call if anything comes up.”

He nodded, jaw tightening slightly. “Do you… suspect anyone?”

My fingers curled around the hem of my sleeve, tightening. “Damien.”

His brows drew together. “Who’s Damien?”

I looked down at my hands, the name tasting bitter on my tongue. “He’s… my past.”

Lucas leaned forward, concern etched into every line of his face. “Your past? Lila, who is he?”

I sighed, the weight of memories pressing down on me. “He’s my ex.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you still have feelings for him?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Feelings? If fear and regret count as feelings, then sure.”

Lucas remained silent, waiting for me to continue.

“Damien was… toxic. Controlling. He had this way of making me feel like I was always in the wrong, always needing to apologize. He isolated me from my friends, made me question my own reality. It took me a long time to see it for what it was.”

I paused, collecting my thoughts.

“I could never go back to that. To him. Being with Damien was like walking on eggshells, never knowing what would set him off. I left to find peace, to find myself again.”

Lucas reached out, placing a comforting hand over mine. “I’m sorry you went through that.”

I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. “Me too.”

He squeezed my hand gently. “You’re safe now.”

I looked into his eyes, finding solace in their depth. “I know.”

The air between us grew still. Lucas didn’t say anything at first, and neither did I. But there was something almost painful in his expression—like he hated that I’d ever felt like I had to prove that in the first place.

He stood up slowly, running a hand through his hair.

“You hungry?”

I blinked at him.

“I was gonna order something, but I’d rather cook,” he said. “I make a decent pasta. Or omelettes, if you’re feeling breakfast-for-dinner.”

My lips parted slightly in surprise. “You cook now?”

“I do,” he said, grinning faintly. “People change. Or… they try.”

He reached for my suitcase. “Come. Let me show you where you’ll be staying.”

I followed him down a long hallway that led to the guest suite. The moment he opened the door, I froze.

The room was bathed in soft cream and warm grays, with plush pillows stacked neatly on a queen-sized bed. A small vase of white tulips sat on the nightstand. The curtains were half drawn, letting in the city’s lights. But it was the folded blanket at the edge of the bed and the unopened bottle of water by the lamp that got me.

“You set this up before you even found me,” I whispered.

He didn’t look away. “I had a feeling.”

I turned to him slowly, my heart doing something sharp in my chest. “Why?”

His eyes softened. “Because I knew if something had happened to you… and I wasn’t ready to take care of you… I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.”

We just stared at each other. For a beat. Then another.

And I realized—I wasn’t the only one still carrying ghosts.

I hadn’t even unpacked yet… but I knew something in me already had.

\---

Dinner was quiet. Not uncomfortable—but quietly grounding. Lucas cooked, insisting on doing it himself despite my weak offer to help. I sat on one of the stools by the island in his kitchen, watching him move with a kind of effortless familiarity I hadn’t expected. There was something oddly calming about it—the way he chopped the vegetables, the soft clink of pans, the low hum of music playing from the speaker tucked beside the fridge.

He made us something simple: garlic butter pasta with grilled chicken and a side of steamed vegetables. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until the first bite. It tasted like comfort. Like the kind of nourishment I didn’t even know I needed after the storm of a day I’d had.

We didn’t talk much—just bits and pieces between chews and silence. He asked about the memorial, about Liv and Tessa, and if Mia had brought her son. I told him about the service, how the air in Louisiana always felt heavier, older, like it carried the grief of generations. He listened, really listened, and when I paused, he didn’t rush to fill the space. He just let me breathe.

After dinner, he led me through the softly lit hallway to the guest room. The door creaked open into a space that took me by surprise—not because of how beautiful it was, but because of how thoughtful it felt. The bed was made, clean sheets tucked tightly. A soft gray throw draped across the edge. A small diffuser glowed faintly on the bedside table, releasing lavender into the air. My suitcase sat in the corner, the same one I’d packed in Louisiana.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” I said, voice low.

He shrugged one shoulder. “I wanted you to feel at home.”

I looked around again, eyes stinging with something close to gratitude. “Thank you, Lucas.”

He stepped closer, pausing at the doorway, his hand brushing lightly against my cheek. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t full of tension or urgency. It was soft. Reassuring. Like a whisper to my skin.

“Don’t worry about anything tonight,” he said. “You’re safe here. Just rest. You’ve had a long day… and tomorrow’s another one.”

I nodded slowly, leaning into the warmth of his palm just before he let it fall.

“Goodnight, Lila.”

“Goodnight.”

The door clicked gently shut behind him, and I stood there for a moment longer, the room finally settling around me. My fingers trailed across the edge of the dresser, the corner of the pillow, grounding myself in this unfamiliar, gentle space.

I took a long shower and changed into something soft, letting the water rinse away what was left of the day. But even as I climbed into bed and turned off the light, sleep didn’t come easily. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts drifting in circles.

So much had changed in just twenty-four hours. My home was gone—violated in a way that made me question every lock, every quiet creak. My heart was tired. And yet… here, in this room that smelled like lavender and hope, I felt the first inkling of safety begin to take root again.

It wasn’t home.

But it could be—for now.

And maybe that was enough.